Guardian
by notcallingyoualiar
Summary: All I know is I'm supposed to save her, that raven-haired girl, and we don't even know each other. Yet.
1. Purpose

**Purpose**

* * *

I have a purpose. I mean, I know we all have a purpose but I mean, I have a specific purpose, which is the very reason I am here on Earth. All of my kind has a purpose.

If that sounds cryptic, it's because it's a mystery to me, too. It has yet to be revealed to me. Moreover, I don't know how to talk about something that I've never actually talked about before.

I think the best way to describe what my kind is what you would call angels. There's really no word that's more accurate and even "angel" is pretty inaccurate. But I guess we'll have to settle for "angel".

Some of us are Impulses. Impulses have one task to fulfill like saving someone from a car crash, leaving a book at a table where a specific individual is meant to pick it up, dropping a glass. Impulses are meant to do one task just at the right moment, which would set off the wheels of fate. Most Impulses vanish after and that makes sense because they really only had one purpose and since it was accomplished, Impulses usually have no reason to live on. They're intensely single-minded.

Some of us are Messengers. They are meant to speak something to someone. Maybe it's to inspire someone, deliver a message, or write a letter, a book. Their purpose is to convey something specific that continues to push the world. Messengers can live for a long time or a short time, it really depends on the kind of message they're delivering. Like Ray Bradbury. You wouldn't know it but he's one of us, too, an "angel" if you will. His book, Farenheit 451, influenced many people everywhere but most importantly, it was supposed to inspire an individual who will not yet be named because it is in the Divine Plan and you're not supposed to reveal the Divine Plan. That is, if you even knew it, which most of us don't.

And then there are Guardians. We're meant for a person. Guardians are kind of complicated in that you might be needed for a short time or sometimes, you're meant to be there for a long time, throughout someone's life. Of course, once a Guardian fulfills his or her task (and really, there's no way to really tell if you have. You just know, at some point, that you're done), they live on because they've already built a life here and they may live on if they have a reason to. Like if they have a family, a lover, friends, a job. But you can be a Guardian all your life if you're meant to constantly be a support, a friend, etc. A Guardian's job is the most puzzling because there's really no set guide on how to be a Guardian. Most of the time, I hear, you end up accomplishing it without realizing it, like it's wired into our beings.

Of course, our purposes can change over the course of time.

But we never really know what we are, an Impulse, a Messenger, a Guardian, until we receive our purpose. Being a Guardian sounds like the best option to me, to be pouring a purpose into someone but of course, I need to see my purpose before I know what to do.

And I've been starting to get flashes of mine.

* * *

The air suddenly feels thinner and it's like I'm about to faint. Right when I close my eyes, I see the backside of a girl. A cheerleader specifically. She has on one of those cheerleader outfits, red with white and black stripes. It's frustrating because I'm close enough to reach out and yank her, see her face and find out who she is but I never do.

I can feel my lips parting to say her name. Her name is just on the tip of my tongue but… that's when it ends.

* * *

"Luce! Come on, get up," Judy pops her head into my room. "You have school."

"You know, Judy, you'd think being angel or whatever would excuse me from this school crap," I mutter into my pillow. "I already can pass high school anyway."

It's not hard for me, especially since I've started getting inklings of my purpose. I'm definitely faster, stronger, smarter, all that supernatural jazz you'd expect from a Twilight novel. Judy says we're wired that way so that we can focus on our purpose without too many obstacles. I always tell her that it's pretty a divine sign that I can stop going to school but she never really listens. She says it's good for me to be among the humans. _Humans_, she says it like we're totally different species. I guess we are but I forget, especially I'm forced to go to school like any other high school student.

Judy is my mentor. I think it's what most people would consider a mother but we definitely don't have that relationship. She cares for me, of course, and does her best to reveal my destiny and educate me about our nature. I know her purpose transformed and she was assigned a second one: me. She's cryptic, in my opinion. I think most of the time, she's communicating with the Network, which is basically the hub-hub of angel communication. Consider it the social network of angels but not on a computer. It's more like a dimension in your mind. I haven't exactly ventured in it too far, mostly because I'm without purpose so I haven't needed to or wanted to reach out to the Network.

The thing with Judy is that she only answers questions; she won't provide me with any more or any less than what I've asked. My education has been a searching one, as in I search for the right questions to ask to find answers.

"Don't say crap and hurry up," Judy calls as she walks away from my room.

I sigh as I stand up.

And that's when it comes. My breath feels shallow, like the air is thinning. Ribs contracting like there's suddenly too much pressure in the room. Grey dots floating in front of me, my vision fuzzy before everything flashes black. All I can think is this is what death must feel like…

_I see her, only her backside again, in the sunset. She's tightening her raven-dark hair, her red cheerleader uniform pristine and crisp. Turn, turn, turn, I will her. I want to see her face but all I can see is her silhouette against the setting sun. _

_I squint my eyes, trying to lift the haze of the flash. She turns three-quarters, just enough for me to make out the "WMHS" on her uniform. WMHS, where the hell is WMHS? _

"_Hey, come on!" _

_The dark-haired girl and I both turn towards the voice. A tall, bubbly blonde is calling her from her car. I curse myself for turning with the dark-haired girl because I miss my chance to catch her face. Instead, I see her backside as she runs towards the car and hops in. She leans in for a hug; I can catch snippets of a sentence. Something "Coach" and "moves"._

_Just as they drive away, it strikes me to look at the license plate. _

_It's something with red, white, and blue, in that order. I squint my eyes but the car is moving away too fast. There's small cursive and– _

I smack my hand to my forehead. Red, white, and blue license plate, great. We live in America. _Reeeeeal helpful, Lucy._

"Judy, I think it's a little clearer now," I sighed as I sat at the table.

"Do you have your notebook?"

I pull out my black moleskin. You should know, in general, I write a lot but this notebook is about my purpose, all the clues and things I can glean from it. The more I know about my purpose, the more I know about me. Like am I messenger? An Impulse? A Guardian?

"Okay, so what happened?" Judy asks, sitting in front of me, sipping her cup of coffee.

"She goes to a high school called 'W-M-H-S'. Has a blonde friend." I'm scribbling the details down furiously before they can escape me. I look up with frustration and complained, "I saw what the license plate looked like but the numbers were too far to see, and the car was moving."

Judy gets up and brings over her laptop. "Okay, well, let's try comparing it to different plate designs. There can't be too many." Her fingers make a _clack-clack_ as she searches.

I watch Judy type away, her eyes focused on the screen. The question that's been on my mind bubbles up before I can even stop it, "What's going to happen once we find out where she is?"

"You're going to go to her."

"How?"

"The plans are already set, Luce, you know that. Things will be taken care of and I've reached out to the Network about your pending purpose." Right, Divine Plan.

The thought of moving somewhere, alone, terrifies me. I have a life here. My friends at school. I do drama club and take part in the school musicals. My teachers like me. And there's Emma, my best friend.

"Do I have to?" I already know the answer before she even responds with that knowing look. I sigh, "I know, I know."

If I wasn't meant to save this girl, I think I'd resent her a lot. My kind has two heartbeats. One is your normal human heart that pulses and sends blood to and fro. The other is our Divine Heart. It has to do with our purpose. And I want to resent this raven-haired girl who would rip me from the fabric of my life but I can't; I can feel the Divine heartbeat that calls me to her, to appear to her as she needs me. It's nice to be needed.

Judy pushes the laptop in front of me before any more resentment can build up. "Here. Scroll through and see if anything looks familiar." She leans back, pleased that she can help, clearly.

It's not a California license plate, I know that. I live in Los Angeles and even though we play the license plate game a lot, the only one I can actually remember is the one I grew up looking at. It sure as heck (because "hell" isn't the best word for us to use) not familiar.

"It's not Alabama or… Montana…" I quickly scroll through the list. "Not California, New York or Jersey."

And then I see it. I stab my finger at the screen and exclaim, "Ohio!"

Judy comes over to my side, her cup in her hand, weighing this new information in her mind. "There can't be that many high schools with those initials. I'll research this while you're at school today."

Things are moving too fast all of the sudden. "Wait, what does that mean?"

Judy looks at me, her eyes a little sad. "It means you'll be leaving. Immediately. Your purpose's location is only revealed to you when you're meant to go there. It may not always be clear but you're supposed to be on your way."

I freeze and slowly ask a question with possibly a terrifying answer, "Am I going… alone?"

She nods.

"I don't have money, a house, or guardians. What if I need signatures for stupid field trips and stuff?" I ask frantically, thinking of all the ways that I could die if I were dropped off at Ohio alone.

Judy laughs, "I told you those things will be taken care of. I'll technically be your official guardian so I'll sign those things. The Network's money will supply you with more than enough money, luxuries, and all those things." The Network, by the way, is loaded. It's what happens when you have a secret society of individuals who are all powerful, brilliant, talented and also contributing money almost all the time.

"What will happen to you?"

"I'll be mentoring someone else," Judy replies but quickly reassures me as I feel horror creep into my expression. "I'll still be available to you and will answer your questions. Anything you need, the Network will provide And these things will be taken care of, I promise."

* * *

My friends ask me what's wrong all day. My teachers ask me if I feel sick. They're not used to seeing me anxious. And when I'm anxious, I don't know what to say so I end up staying silent. It's a relief when the school day is finally over and I can go home.

"Luce!" I turn to find Emma running to me. She runs straight into me, crashing into me as her way of hugging me, "Wanna grab coffee later instead of running?"

I scrunch up my face, practically tasting the bitter residue of coffee on my tongue. "You know I don't like coffee."

"I know," Emma grins. "But there's a new café I want to try and I checked: they serve really good tea. Just for you," she winks, making me blush.

Emma Reese is kind of a heartbreaker, if you couldn't tell. She's tall and fit, like all of our track team. Her legs are toned in that way that makes you feel guilty for every donut you've ever even thought of. We run together almost every day, we hang out way too much, probably.

Strawberry blonde hair with freckles. It's not like I have a particular type but I'd say I like strawberry-blonde with freckles. The thing about extraordinarily gorgeous people is that it's much like unattractive people; after awhile, you forget about how they look and they just look normal. Sometimes, I forget though, like now, when she appears really suddenly and unexpectedly. Then I see her like everyone else does: that California runner, her almost-red hair set ablaze in the sunlight.

When the blush finally fades, I reply.

"I can't," I sigh. "I have some stuff to deal with at home."

Her excitement immediately melts away into concern. "Are you okay? What's wrong at home?"

"Nothing," I poke a finger into her cheek to make her grin. When she flashes her grin in response, I call, "But I'll catch you later!" I spin and jump off the last steps. When I turn back to wave bye, I notice a particular expression on her face. Emma looks at me with a certain intensity I noticed only recently.

Emma once told me that she loves my hair in the sunset light, that there's a particular glow about it. I told her it comes with the territory of being blonde. She reached out and touched my blonde hair, feeling how fine it is between her fingers. I felt nervous, having her stare at me so intensely, like she wanted to say something but didn't know if there were really words for it.

She has that same look when she's watching me rehearse my songs. She perches her chin on her palms and lets me serenade her. Sometimes, when she can't sleep at night she'll call me and ask me to sing to her. I've sang quietly to her at four in the morning more times than I can remember.

I waggle my fingers as I head to my car.

* * *

"Judy!" I call out as I slip in through the door. "I'm home!"

Two steps into the house and I feel it. The air thinning…

"_Hey, come on!" I hear the blonde's voice again._

_I'm closer this time. The dark-haired girl is already halfway in the car and I'm right next to her open window. I can see the blonde's face but not the girl. It's frustrating enough that I want to pound on the car door to get her attention, make her look at me._

"_Sorry to make you wait, Santana. Coach Sylvester wanted me to teach Riley moves. I don't know why she makes me do it. I know Riley already hates me," the blonde said sadly, her big blue eyes casted down. _

_Santana._

_Finally, a name. _

_Santana. _

"_Santana." I whisper it to myself, feeling her name on my tongue._

_Like she heard me, she turns and glances out the window, looking straight at and through me._

_She's gorgeous. I mean, I live in LA so I've seen my fair share of gorgeous but wow. Her dark eyes are striking, almost too intense to look directly into. A perfect shade of caramel skin, with high cheekbones, full lips. There's something real and intense about her._

_She turns back away, toward her friend. "It's because you're the best, Brittany," Santana smiled gently, trying to reassure her friend. Just as I consider how incredibly sweet it is, the way that Santana is looking at Brittany, her words and gestures, her expression hardens unexpectedly, her next words just as unexpected. "And if Riley gives you shit about anything, I'll go all Lima Heights on her." Her voice is laced with venom. _

I'm suddenly back, still standing in the doorway. Judy, who wasn't there before, is looking at me from the hallway, patiently waiting.

I grin, "Her name is Santana. Santana. But… she doesn't seem to need my help? What am I to her?" I send a questioning look at Judy.

"Guardian," Judy replies simply. I suspect she's known all along and waited to tell me at the right moment. "You are to be her Guardian."

_Guardian_, I like the ring of that.

And that's when I see it, a neat stack of books in an open suitcase, just off to the side of the hallway. On top are shiny cards, something like…. an Ohio driver's license.

"What is that?" I point a shaky finger, backing away and stepping back out the door.

Judy shook her head, "I told you we have to move fast. Your purpose is coming."

Emma crosses my mind, filling me with panic. I breathe out, "But it's too soon. I have school, friends. I'm supposed to be singing in the school musical, you know that. I'm not ready."

"You are." To Judy, it's simple. Fulfill your purpose. It's more complicated when you're a teenager who has to leave all her friends. When there's someone you like.

But I have no choice. Even as I feel resentful of this Santana girl, there's a powerful force that calls me to her. It's a magnetic tug that I couldn't resist even if I tried. So I don't try.

"Let me say one goodbye at least, please," I ask quietly. "And then I'll go."

Judy nodded, knowing where I was going to go.

* * *

"What?! Why?!" Emma's horrified expression reflects my own. I dragged her out to buy her that cup of coffee and I told her as we were walking home, our paper cups in hand. It's the least I could do, considering the bomb I was about to drop on her.

My own horror has settled to sadness and submission.

"I have to," I try to explain without really explaining what I am and what I have to do. "I didn't even know until I came home today and–" I stumble on my words, remembering, to everyone else, Judy is my mom. "My mom had my stuff packed for me."

"When are you leaving?" Emma looked her cup like it could tell her the answers.

"Tomorrow morning. Everything's been taken care of." I realized how much I sounded like Judy. "I even have a house there already. They enrolled me in William McKinley High School. I'll be in Ohio," I scoffed, trying to make her laugh at how different it will be at a high school in Ohio.

For the rest of the way to Emma's house, she's silent. I don't know what to make of it. I want to cry and yell; I want _her_ to cry and yell. Scream it's unfair.

As we reach the steps, she's still silent. "I'm sorry," I blurt out, even though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for.

When she looks at me, I see a thin film of tears. The world seems louder, brighter, vivid when she's staring at me.

Just as I want to say goodbye, trying to leave before I feel the sorrow of leaving settle in, her hands drop the cup and reach around the back of my neck.

Before I realize what's happening, her lips are on mine, strawberry-blonde hair making a curtain in front of me.

I can taste mango lip balm and the salt of her tears. She whispers against my lips, "I'm going to miss you." Emma lets go of me, staring into my eyes like it's the last time she's going to see me. I can see my own green eyes tearing up, reflected in her glistening eyes.

I lean in and kiss her briefly once more before I spin on my heel and run. I run because if I didn't, I'd never leave. If I didn't leave, the balance in the universe would be upset because I didn't fulfill my purpose. And God knows what consequences _that_ would have.

So I go to my purpose.

But as I leave my house, board a plane, fly across the country, and drop my bags in an empty house, much too large for just me, I taste her mango lip balm and for the first time, feel resentful of my purpose. Profanity isn't really approved considering our nature but all I can think is, _Damn Santana__._

* * *

_A/N: This is just a story that was inspired by a whole mess of books. I'm not sure if I'll continue the story but I figured I would put it out there. Enjoy!_


	2. Wings

**Wings**

* * *

It's dark when I arrive at my new house. Since no one I know lives in Lima, I have to take a cab at night all the way here, where he let me out in front of an unexpectedly large house.

_Are you serious? _"What a waste of space," I mutter under my breath, looking at the mansion standing in front of me. I don't know why the Network gave me a mansion to live in alone. If they're trying to emphasize solitude, mission accomplished.

"Thank you," I tell the cab driver, handing him tightly folded bills from my wallet. He gets out to pull out my one duffel bag from the trunk. Judy didn't send me off with too many things; she said everything is already there. "It's all taken care of." I'm starting to hate that sentence.

The best thing I see is the new car parked in the driveway. A white car, almost too sporty for this town, but perfect for my SoCal taste. I look back down at my wallet. I even have a new driver's license with a new name. My name is Quinn Fabray. Quinn Fabray, living in Lima, Ohio.

Lima, Ohio. Who would have thought I'd end up here? _This is no Los Angeles._

I slide my key into the lock and venture in.

It's nice. I mean, really, really nice. I think the closest I've seen is something from that E! Entertainment show about celebrity homes. As soon as I step in the doorway, I'm in a large circular room, one with a spiraling staircase that leads to a second floor and wraps around a chandelier. Dark cherrywood floors, mahogany railings, red Persian rugs that line the cold hardwood floors. The Network sure weren't stingy about their assignments.

At the top of the stairs, there was a hallway of rooms but I'm sure the last one is mine. I open the door to find a wide room, possibly the span of the whole house. Large windows from the high ceilings to the floor, no desk but one king-sized bed, draped with dark red sheets and comforter.

A small card is perched on the pillow and I recognize Judy's loopy cursive. I drop my bags, grab the card, and stretch across the huge bed. Even so, I only take up maybe a sixth of the space. Probably less.

_Quinn,_

_I thought you'd like this house. You will be starting at William McKinley High School this week. Everything has been transferred over. The directions are already put in the GPS of your new car. Keys on the table. _

_I checked the roster of students for you. There's only one Santana at the school. Santana Lopez._

_I suggest you work on Divinity on your spare time. You don't know when you'll need it. _

_Judy._

I groan. Divinity is what I think Buddhists call Nirvana, that mental state of pure peace and light. Even though I've practiced for so long, it's still hard to get there without purpose. It's supposed to serve a function against the dark but no one ever quite explained how or what that even means. But I haven't tried since my purpose has been getting stronger so maybe, it won't be so bad.

But then again, Judy said learning to use my wings wouldn't be hard either and that was _hard_.

Wings, I know. Practically an angel cliché but at least, we know that the churches got that right.

Alone in my house, I let them out, stretching them as far as I can, which is about twice the length of my body. I'm not sure where they go when I tuck them inward because there is no way that my entire wingspan can fit inside my body with all my organs and muscles. There's a dimension of the mind where our wings can fold into, out of place but not out of mind.

My feathers feel soft under my fingers, soft as they were when I first received them at ten years old. It's as much a part of me as my arms and legs. I once plucked a feather and my eyes immediately teared up at the sting. These feathers are part of our design, meant to stay with us; to lose a feather is painful as losing our identity which is as painful as losing an arm.

Judy's wings were white as newly fallen snow but mine are a shade darker. She told me the tone of our wings reflects where we stand in the light, which, in turn, is determined by where we are in the path of our purpose. I can't say that I've always been on the path, which probably explains why my wings, as white as they are, have a hint of grey. I'm sure my reluctance to come to Lima, to leave behind Emma and my life in Los Angeles, probably contributed.

But there are those who have turned away from their purpose altogether. Their wings have changed from the feathery spans to wiry, skeletal wings, black as night. Judy says if you fall towards the dark, your feathers slowly turn black until every feather is dark as night. And then they blow away one by one, until all there is left is the skeleton of your wings as a reminder of who you stand with now, the Fallen.

If it sounds creepy, that's because it is.

* * *

"Are you kidding me, Judy," I mutter under my breath. I remember I said the classes were getting too easy but did she really have to sign me up for college-level contemporary literature? I meant that I should be able to bypass high school altogether, not sign up for a heavier load.

William McKinley isn't huge or anything but it's definitely set-up differently from my old high school. I can't seem to even find my first class of the day.

Just as I squint to look at the small printed number besides a locker, trying to find mine, a burly boy in a red letterman jacket barrels straight into me. He guffaws with laughter, punching his friends as they walked down, not even taking a second look at me. I, on the other hand, have dropped six books, a binder, and papers.

Point: jocks.

"Do you need help?" A hand reaches down to grab some of my books.

"Thanks," I mutter, gathering the pile of dropped materials into a messy pile. When I glance up, I find a wide-eyed, smiling blonde. _Brittany_. As I take the books from her hands, I say, "Thanks, Brittany."

_Crap_. She looks confused, the sweetness leaving only bewilderment on her face. Like this, she looks like a lost doe.

"How do you know my name?"

"Uh…." Angel or not, I blank. You would think I get some Divine answers once in awhile to compensate for my random spurts of blanks but nope, that's not included in the plan. "Someone pointed you out earlier to me?" Even though the statement comes out more like a question than an answer, Brittany seems appeased by this answer and reaches out for the paper in my hand.

"Here," she smiles sweetly, scanning the paper. "I'll take you to your locker and point you in the direction of the classroom, at least."

"Um, thanks," I accept hesitatingly. Maybe being friendly is normal in Lima, Ohio but in Los Angeles, this is suspicious. They're either crazy or trying to rob you. Or both. Still, the way she bounces when she walks and the fact that we're surrounded by people, coupled with my desperation, persuades me that she will neither be publicly psychotic or try to rob me. I mean, who is publicly going to rob someone? Still, I can't help ask, "Why are you being nice to me?" Subtext: what do you want…?

She shrugs nonchalantly, "My best friend was the first person to talk to me and she was nice to me. It's rough being new." Brittany glances down to double-check the number and smiles brightly. "You have the locker next to Tana," she squeals, delighted with this new fact. "We'll see each other a lot then!"

As we approach the locker, she gabs happily about the cheerleader squad she's on, how her best friend is so good at everything and I should really join "Cheerios," too, because they kicked out a girl named Riley recently so they need another girl. I think she's talking about cereal until she points to her own letterman jacket with "Cheerios" printed on the back and I realize it's the cheerleading squad she's on. I don't know how to tell her that I'm sure cheerleading is the opposite of what I want to do, which is find the drama club and choir.

"Here's your locker!" She bubbles happily. "Your classroom is that way," Brittany points to a direction behind me. "Up the stairs, third door to your left."

"Thanks, Brittany," I sigh, relieved that some kind soul reached out to me.

"Heyyyyy," a boy's voice drawls from behind Brittany. "Bringing in fresh meat for me, I see, Britts." A boy in a similar letterman jacket, sporting a mohawk, winks at me. I try my best not to hurl. "Name's Puckerman, though the ladies call me Puck."

He winks, knowing he's good-looking. And I'll admit it, he has some bad-ass look to him that may be attractive to some. But I still taste mango lip balm and when I close my eyes, I see Emma. So it just makes me furious that this boy thinks he can get anything from me, let alone be _meat_ to him.

"Well, _Puck_, why don't you scamper off to comb your nineties, wanna-be mohawk?" I scowl at him, razors in my voice. He scowls right back, but with a flirtatious undertone which only pisses me off. "And upgrade your pick-up lines." Okay, not my finest moment as an angel but it was satisfying as scratching an itch.

His ego is bruised, I can feel it at the edge of my consciousness. I normally don't try to be empathetic; we're sensitive to emotions but it seems I have a hyper-sensitivity to it. It's not mind-reading but I'll feel what other people feel, not as strongly if I try to block it off, which is what I try to do most of the time. Imagine walking down Sunset Blvd with a hundred petty emotions coursing through your mind, none of which actually apply to you. That's me, all the time, if I don't try stemming it. But in this case, I made an exception to feel the sting my insults.

And that's when I hear it.

A laugh. My heart beats like it's trying to get out of my chest. _She's here_.

When I turn, I see Santana, her lips closing from the laughter that slipped out of her mouth. She's more striking in person, you know, without all the haze of a flash. Her dark hair is pulled tightly into a ponytail, her dark eyes in a steady glare. Under the tight red Cheerio uniform, I can see almost every rivet of her body, the curves and dips. _Stop objectifying your purpose,_ I scream at myself. She's smirking in the direction of Puck sulking away, his ego bruised. Even her smirk looks beautiful in a way that only things that look effortless can be.

_Okay, good, a laugh_. "I'm Quinn," I reach out a hand. She looks at the hand and then back at me, carefully watching me as she opens her locker and slowly pulls out a book. Her eyes narrow into a suspicious glare just before she walks away. _Or not…_

Brittany waggles her fingers before bouncing towards Santana. "Bye, Quinn!"

So… I guess my purpose isn't a friendly one.

* * *

_TWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET_.

The PE teacher blows her whistle. "Fabray! Get over here! Come on, sprint!"

_Seriously, lady? You just made me run three miles and you want me to sprint!? _She must be a sadist.

I pant as I get to her, even though it wasn't so strenuous of a run, but I hear that's what humans feel like after three miles. So I pant like I just ran three miles as a human.

"You ever do sports?"

"Um, not really," I answer, thinking about how dancing in the school play was about the closest I got to sports. Running with Emma was a private pleasure, not a public sports match. "I was more of a drama club, choir girl."

The teacher flashes me a grin, like he's laughing at me. "Okay, I think you should go for Cheerios. They just opened up a spot and Sue Sylvester has been hounding me for a girl to take that spots." I must have looked confused because he explained, "They need an even number for their nationals competition. Trust me, you want to be on it."

_Cheerios. The thing that Santana is on_. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing to be closer to my purpose.

"Erm, okay," I don't really know how to reply. "What do I do?"

"You don't. I just have to tell her. You be there at Cheerio practice tomorrow morning. Upper soccer field, 6am."

_What_. I swallow down my disbelief. "Um, okay."

So it comes with the territory of angeldom. We do as we are beckoned, even if it means I have to get up at an ungodly hour to do flips and jumps for jocks. We have free will, thank God, and such but our greatest fulfillment comes from serving our purpose so most of us choose to do that. Of course, if we don't, it begins a ripple effect, starting with the feathers of our wings.

But I see Santana's glare in my mind and I don't really know how I'm supposed to help her.

* * *

"_How was it?_" Judy wanted to hear about my first day of school. Specifically of Santana Lopez.

"I met her," I spoke into the phone while flipping through a take-out menu. "She's not…as sweet as I imagined."

"_Well, our purposes may be resistant but you need to stay strong,_" she tells me. "_You never know how you may end up helping her, Quinn._"

My new name feels uncomfortable in her voice, enough to make me squirm. "I don't know, I heard a lot about her from the kids who don't treat me like a leper. She doesn't have the best reputation, you know. It's like she's some human repellant. But scary. Think repellant that can kill you. That's the impression of Santana Lopez, I'm getting."

Judy laughs. "_Sounds like you have an adventure in your hands_."

More like a nuisance. I grunt something in reply.

"_So are you doing okay there? They set you up okay?_"

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine," I mumble into the phone. Sometimes, Judy is more mother than mentor. "Anyway, I should go. I'm going to make some salad. There's just no restaurant in this town worth order from."

"_Okay, make sure you're wary and cautious, Q,_" she says clearly into the phone, leaving me with more vague and cryptic messages than ever. "_I mean it._"

The phone beeps with another line. I glance down and see the freckle-face of my best friend. Emma.

"I will, Judy," I reply distractedly. "Bye."

_Beep. Beep. _

I haven't talked to Emma since I left, since the last thing we shared was a coffee-tinted kiss, unexpected for both of us, I presume. My finger hovers over the answer button and in a moment of courage, I press it.

"Hello?"

"_Are you sleeping already? I didn't wake you, did I? I'm never going to get this time difference thing down,_" her voice rushes through the phone, a flood of words without the pause to let me answer. I feel her nervousness hit me through her voice. In these moments, I can be grateful for my empathy. At least, we know it's a mutual nervousness.

I laugh. "Emma, it's only nine here."

I hear her breath a sigh of relief and smile into the phone. _"I don't know, maybe you changed into a grandma since I last saw you and started sleeping at nine. Who knows what living in Ohio will do to you?_"

"It's interesting here," I retort. It must have sounded just as unconvincing to her as it did to my own ears because she laughs like she knows I'm lying.

"_How are the people?_"

"Mmmm," I hum as I reconsider the people I met today. "They seem… kind of normal. I met a few people today. I'm joining the cheerleading squad, I think."

"_Really?_" Emma sounds puzzled. "_You never were into that stuff before. You always said that jock-cheerleader stuff was for insecure people who'd never accomplish anything out of high school._"

"What are you, taking notes on what I say somewhere?" It's crazy and slightly inconvenient how closely Emma listens to what I say sometimes. How do I explain this change in behavior? I can't quite tell her, oh yeah, the girl I moved here for is a cheerleader so I thought I'd stalk her a little bit. Nope, that wouldn't go over well. "Bt I figure it's worth looking into since it's kind of what everyone here is all about."

Emma doesn't want to make me uncomfortable, I can tell. "_Erm, okay, let me know how it goes_."

I hear a soft flutter of wings near one of the windows. With the phone pressed to my ear, I peer outside, only to find a white butterfly, perched on the windowsill. A sign.

"Hey, Emma?"

"_Hmm?_"

"I have to go but I'll talk to you tomorrow?" I'm distracted but not distracted enough to make the small request that she calls me back. It hurts to have to say goodbye. The ache alone is enough to make me want to fly back to Los Angeles, with my own wings if I have to.

"_I'll call you,_" she promises. In three words, I felt all the resentment that goes against the design of my nature direct towards that dark-haired cheerleader who glares at me, who made me start a whole new life. _It's not like I even wanted to move here_. I move towards the window as I hear Emma hang up.

The window makes no noise as I lift it to let the butterfly in. It flits onto my finger and lets me bring it in. Saint Augustine once wrote that angels are spirits. That's not to say that spirits are angels; we are spirits who become angels when we are sent with a purpose. It is the title of our office, not our nature. Our nature is spirit. Our purpose is Angelic.

So it makes sense that butterflies are our kindred spirits. They know what is to be a spirit more than any other; butterflies have a spirit to be able to shed one body and form another. Most animals grow but in the end, they look sort of the same, just bigger. Butterflies, however, become a completely different creature when they are called to transform. We share this quality with them; we become completely different, maybe not physically, when we receive our purpose, our calling. You can practically find another of our kind by observing the direction of butterflies. They naturally gravitate to us like lonely creatures who find us to be their friends, which, I guess, in a way, we are.

But more often than not, they are a sign. Judy told me to take notes of when a butterfly appears to me because it is a message, a divine form of communication. They tell us, _You are well. You are good. It is meant to be and it will be taken care of. _

Any uncertainty I felt about being in Lima, any resentment for Santana, all those doubts and fears vanishes. I'm supposed to be here for Santana, I know it.

I summon my own wings, a sudden flash of feathers drawn out; it's a sign of respect. I'm responding to the universe, to God: _I'm here and I'm ready._

* * *

"You're early, I like that." Coach Sylvester slowly surveys me through her narrowed eyes, like she's trying to determine if I'm worth a cheerleader uniform.

"Well, early is on time," I reply smartly, a hint of sass in my voice. I'm daring her to not take me.

She purses her lips before making a decisive lip-smacking choice: "Uniform is in the locker room. Practice is until your first period and again after school. The boys practice football on the same field but don't get any ideas about being distracted; we are _champions_. You do not eat carbs past afternoon. I will not have my Cheerios blemished because some California girl decides to change it."

Wow, this would never fly in California. A health specialist would kick any eating-disorder-supporting teacher out before you can say "vomit".

"I eat what I want," I retort, practically asking to get kicked off the team. But apparently, this is a good response because she gives an approving nod and jerks her head towards the locker room. I'm dismissed to try on my new uniform, resulting in me leaving with the thought that people here are weird.

As I start peeling off my own jeans and shirt, I sense someone coming in, their consciousness suddenly in the vicinity of my own. Without a shirt and pants, I see Brittany coming in, bouncing lightly in her happy way. When she catches sight of me and the uniform I'm holding in my hands, she squeals and tumbles into me in a hug. I smile, reminded of Emma and how she hugged me.

"I knew you'd be here! I knew it! I thought that you would when I saw you yesterday and I just knew you were one of us," Brittany grinned happily. "We're Cheerios together!"

I smile back, just slightly uncomfortable by the fact that I was letting Brittany hug me while I has still half-naked. Brittany turns away to walk to her own gym locker, letting me slip into my uniform. It's stiff and tight, uncomfortable in a way that only high school can make it. Sounds much like the high school experience, in general. The skirt is short, showing way too much of my legs than I'm comfortable with, and the black spanks underneath might as well be underwear. This is going to take some getting used to.

I walk over to the mirror, smoothing out the skirt in the reflection. I look up at the reflection of the door behind me when I hear the _swoosh_ of a swinging door and see Santana stepping through. She looks straight at me with a forceful gaze when…

_I'm looking straight at Santana, who is cowering from something behind me. For the first time, I see how vulnerable she is, despite her impression at school. And we're definitely not at school anymore. In fact, I'm not even sure where we are. _

_Something swings at Santana and misses. She takes advantage of the moment and shoots out from under and runs. I can't see any of our surroundings but I'm running next to her. "Go," I urge, even though I know she can't hear me. I feel her fear, absolutely paralyzing. _

_Someone's arm shoots out and grabs her, yanking her back_.

A hand is waving over my face. Everything slowly starts coming into focus and I realize I'm looking at… the ceiling?

"Are you okay," Brittany's face pops over mine, her question in her eyes. She's waving her hand over my face like she's fanning it.

"Um, yeah, must be dehydrated or something," I lie unconvincingly for the second time in two days. I sit back up and lean against the locker. When I look over at Santana, I can't quite read the expression on her face. _What are you thinking?_ Okay, for the record, it goes against all my morals to peer into someone's mind but I had to. I lowered the boundaries of my consciousness and let myself feel what she felt.

_Torn. She feels torn._

She wanted to reach out to me. Her natural instinct was to catch me. And that unnerved her because she never really cared about anyone besides Brittany, who was like her sister. I saw what I looked like through her eyes: someone she wanted to care about. I have no idea why and apparently, neither did she.

But she also had a reputation, one she worked hard to build and it was the bad-ass, heartless bitch of Lima Heights. She wasn't going to let some stupid girl melt the ice castle she called her heart. I don't think she realized it already melted.

So she froze on the spot, unsure of how to respond.

I realized I had been staring at her, struggling to stem the flood of emotions barreling through the small connection. At the same time, I'm trying to piece together what I just saw.

She must have realized it, too, because she blinked and snapped, "What, _sunshine_?" I cringe at the malice she managed to load into a seemingly innocent word, sunshine.

I could almost see her smack herself mentally for not coming up with a better insult. Really, Sunshine for a girl from California? Not too insulting but I don't snap back with anything.

"Nothing," I responded quietly. "I just thought we're going to be late for practice."

She nodded curtly before spinning on her heel and leaving.

I wanted to reach out to her, ask her why someone is going to hit her. _Are you okay_, I settle for silently asking in my mind. With every heartbeat, I ached for her, wanting to draw her into the comfort and safety of my wings and protect her. I suppose this instinct is only going to get stronger as the time draws near.

* * *

"Are… you…. kidding me…" Santana pants as she flops onto the grassy field, having just finished up her fifth mile. She doesn't even seem to mind that I'm the one listening.

I grin, "It's not so bad, Santana."

She glares at me in response. But it's not an unfriendly glare. It's teasing, almost like she's making fun of me but in a friend-ish way.

Maybe it's just wishful thinking. I sit up, looking over to the football players as I lean back against my propped arms.

_God, they must lose an IQ point every other day_, I think as I watch the boys crash into each other, helmet against helmet, shoulder against shoulder. I feel bad, wishing that they had more to offer than just the physical barreling of their huge bodies. Unpleasant crunching noises echo loudly, the soundtrack to the Cheerios who are still running. Which are all the Cheerios except me and Santana. It's impressive how close of a second place Santana came running in.

Santana sneers, "This is why the football players are failing school. Dumb as the day they were born." _Woah._ Okay, I know I said the same thing essentially but I'm pretty sure my thoughts didn't quite accomplish that tone of disgust.

I hear the football coach blow her whistle, letting them off the hook. Santana flops back down, her tight ponytail making her head fall to one side, where she ended up watching me. I could feel her eyes on me, making me nervous. Your purpose isn't supposed to make you nervous… are they?

So I watch the boys. I'm slowly starting to know their names. Um, Finn Hudson, quarterback. Karofsky, inconsiderate jerk. Noah Puckerman...who seems to be slowly moving away from the crowd. I watch Noah Puckerman wander away from the crowd to the sideline. No one else paid attention to him as they jostle each other, yelling and throwing water. He crouched down. _What is he doing?_

He reached out a hand and waited patiently for… a butterfly.

_You._

_Must._

_Be._

_Kidding._

_Me._

Just as I'm basically drowning in my disbelief, I feel something prod at my mind. Another presence.

_You know it's rude to stare, even if it's hard to tear away your eyes from this gorgeousness called Puckerman,_ Puck's consciousness echoes through my own.

_You can't… Are you… what … seriously?!_ I stutter incomplete sentences back at him.

Puck turns and winks at me. _Admit it, it feels better not to be alone. _

_Don't say a word or I will let all the boys know how much you love butterflies. _His jaw drops just the slightest at the notion. I see enough of his mind to know that he actually cares about his reputation, probably a little too much.

_We'll talk eventually. Catch you later_, his voice echoes as he draws away my mind.

Santana is staring at me pretty blatantly. Does she not know she's being pretty obvious? Her eyes survey me like she doesn't know what to make of me. Which makes sense. I must look like I'm in a trance and in a moment of reckless courage, I hear myself ask, "Hey, do you mind showing me around Lima sometime? I'm new but haven't left the house since I got here."

She narrows her eyes suspiciously and opens her mouth to answer, though no sound comes out. Before she can say anything, Brittany quickly bounces over, out of breath but still, somehow, bubbly and the window of opportunity passes.

* * *

"They're following you, you know," Puck leans against my car door as I look for my keys and flashes a lopsided grin.

I look around me. The school is empty except for the few Cheerios waiting for a ride.

"Who?"

"Them." He looks pointedly at two butterflies hovering nearby.

I grab his hand and drag him into the gym. I am _not _about to have this conversation in public.

"Woah, woah, Quinn, if you wanted me, all you had to do was ask," he laughs as he holds his hands up.

I roll my eyes, "Don't flatter yourself. You're not my type."

"Ouch," he clutches his chest. "I should figure. I've seen you look at her." I freeze and he grins at the sight. "Don't worry, I won't tell about your little crush, although really, I liked Santana for a long time, too, and I'd say she hasn't warmed up to me as quickly as she did with you."

"She hasn't warmed up, in my opinion," I comment dryly, thinking of the glare she seems to have permanently adopted.

"She hasn't sliced you with her vicious, vicious words, which means she's warming up, trust me," he shrugs nonchalantly. "Although, I personally prefer her feisty attitude. It's hot."

With that particular remark, I invade deeply into his mind and summon with the loudest, rumbling command in Divinity: _Wings._ Under the power of that one word, his wings shoot out, dismissing any doubt I had.

"Seriously? Rude," he remarks, unfazed, folding his wingspan. His wingspan is maybe half foot longer than my own. What throws me off is the particular shade of grey; it's only a shade darker than my own but a beautiful soft grey. I reached out but drew my hand back before I actually touched the feathers.

"I was just checking," I smirk.

"Well, now that we both know," he replied as he tucked away his wings, pushing them into another dimension and away from sight. "Let's try this again. I'm Noah Puckerman, Messenger." He sticks out a purpose is extremely personal and private; I'm surprised by his faith in me. And it must show because he smiles reassuringly and genuinely at me without a trace of sleaziness or insincerity.

_We could be friends._

I would never admit it but… it feels good to have someone who might understand. I've rarely encountered another angel.

And at least, I'm not alone in Lima, Ohio. With the same trust he's given me, I take his hand,"I'm Quinn, Lucy Quinn Fabray, Guardian."

* * *

_A/N: I already know how I want to this end, I think I'm going to write a few chapters and see how that goes. Thanks for reading & hope you guys enjoy! _

_Also, for anyone who is following this from If I Can Fly Fanfic, I swear I'm writing that. Just need a little change of pace for inspiration._

_Leave some love/feedback & reviews._


	3. Flight

**Flight**

* * *

"Really? Why Santana?" Noah looks skeptical when he asks me. He leans across the lunch table, his voice lowered.

I shrug. It's not like we get a manual on the why, what, when, where, who, just these vague flashes and the innate knowledge that they are important individuals. My every instinct relies on the sure knowledge that Santana is going to do something important. I just don't know what. "I just know she's important. You'll know when you see them. This feeling, this pull, this thing." I wave my hand vaguely in front of my chest, a pathetic attempt to convey what I mean.

"How did you know it was her?" Noah hasn't received his purpose yet, even though he knows it's a message. He said that he always has this feeling that the right words are on the tip of the tongue and he knows that in one moment, his words will matter. There's no other purpose, he knows for a fact. So the best he can do is interrogate me at every chance to figure it out.

I think back, trying to pin down the steps it took to getting here. "My flashes used to be really vague. I could barely tell anything, except that she was in a skanky red cheerleader uniform."

Noah smirked at me.

"What," I ask, irritated by the look in his eyes.

He laughs as he points to me, "You're in a skanky uniform now!"

I roll my eyes. "Not by choice, keep in mind. You get to wear jeans and a jacket; I have to wear this uniform. It covers almost nothing! And it's all tight."

He clutches his stomach until his laughter simmers down, "Whew, okay," he continues, the ghost of his laughter lingering on his face as a wide grin. "What are you going to do? You can't tell her, hey, I'm here to save your life. I don't know when or why so I'm just going to stalk you."

"I'm not stalking," I protested. "I'm merely… protective of my cause."

"You're lucky your cause is hot," he glances over to where Santana is laughing with Brittany at their lunch table. _She looks happy_, I realize. I can't tell if it's the angel blood in my veins or my own will but… I want to make her laugh like that. She always glares at me like I'm about to stab her with a pen or something, which goes entirely against my nature. Not that I can say that.

I smack Noah and exclaim, "Stop objectifying her!"

"Possessive much?" He winks at me. "Don't worry," he reassures me. "She's all yours. I know she's not my purpose anyway." He ponders over my dilemma. "I'd tell you to get in her pants but I don't know if you can follow the Puckerman in bed."

I groan. He's slept with her, which is just so wrong to me. "I'm going to ignore that. I just need to figure out how to save her, regardless of what she's meant to do," I say frustrated, mindlessly moving around the slop on my lunch tray. I can't believe they even call this mess a lunch.

Noah must take notice of my frustration because he clears his throat and gives it some serious thought, becoming silent for a moment, which is an upgrade to his snarky attitude. "Why don't you ask Brittany to hang out?"

I give him a confused look. "I'm supposed to be with Santana, not Brittany, that's why."

"No, I mean," he looks over his shoulder pointedly. The blonde and Santana's heads are close together, like they're sharing a secret. The way she's half-smiling with that familiar glare in her eyes, well, it makes me want to be a part of it. No wonder they're the _it _girls of school; they make you want to be them, with them, or on top of them, if not all of the above. He continues, "They're never apart and most likely, Santana won't let you hang out with Brittany alone so she'll have to come with you two and hang out with you, too."

"It's not just that, Noah," I say. He grunts; he hates it when I call him Noah. It undermines his reputation, he tells me. I ignore his not-so-subtle dislike. "I don't know why she hates me."

"She just doesn't know how to act around you," he replies simply, putting his chin on his folded forearms. "She's just kind of defensive, like all the time."

"Well, that doesn't help me. How am I supposed to help someone like that? I'm her _guardian__, _but she won't let me, you know, guard or whatever." Frustration laces my voice.

The bell rings before he can give me an answer. He gets up, takes my tray away for me with a hand, his other hand tossing his letterman jacket hanging over his shoulder. When he walks back, I can see the horde of girls turning their heads at the Lima bad-ass. He saunters with a smirk, soaking up all the attention like a sponge. I roll my eyes at him.

Noah looks back at me, considering the predicament, and shrugs, "I know you'll figure it out." He winks and heads out the cafeteria doors.

_Somehow, I doubt that_.

* * *

"How are you doing that?"

I turn to find Santana glaring at me, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. _Um…_"Do what?"

"Splits, jumps, somersaults," she inquires, less bitchy than before but that's not to say it was a friendly tone. "You jump like you can fly."

_Erm, 'cause I can, kiddo_. "I don't know," I shrug. _It's in my nature. You know, supernatural and stuff. _I want to tell her. That would make it so much easier but I'm pretty sure that would qualify me as every category of freak in high school. "I think it's just a lot of running made me feel lighter. And when I feel lighter, I feel like I can do more things, like I have no limits, you know?"

She looks at me like she understands but doesn't want to admit it. Just as she's about to answer, Brittany bounces over and jumps on Santana's back, riding her like her personal pony. Santana laughs good-naturedly, scrunching her nose in a playful way. Brittany looks at me from Santana's back, giggling and laughing as she asks, "Hey, Quinnie, Santana and I were going to hang out later. Do you want to hang out today?"

This is perfect! Almost exactly what Noah suggested but Santana practically hisses at the notion.

"Um," I hesitate. I want to but clearly, Santana doesn't want me there. _WHY ARE YOU BEING SO DIFFICULT?! JUST LET ME SAVE YOU! _Okay, mentally screaming at your purpose is probably not angelic or even sane but I feel like it's justified. So there. I ignore her displeasure at the suggestion, "Sure, I'd love to. You guys want to come over?"

Brittany scrunches her nose, "Your parents won't mind?"

_Oh yeah, parents_. "Yeah, it'll be fine. They're…" I rack my brains. Divine intervention, please. "Out of town. A lot. For business and stuff." I wave my hand vaguely, like that explains anything.

Brittany nodded, "Okay. Wait for us! I'm going to go change!" She bounces from on top of Santana, making the brunette groan under her. "To the locker room!" She declares as she points to the direction. Santana walks as fast as she can, completely whipped in the hands of her best friend. I'm sure if anyone else did this, she'd rip their throats out.

I chuckle. It's nice to see someone put Santana down every once in awhile.

* * *

"Wow, you live here alone?" Brittany's eyes are wide as she takes in the house.

"Yeah, my parents kind of…live out of town and stuff." Okay, Fabray, you got this. You're not lying…technically. "So I live here alone."

I pull into the driveway, Santana quietly observing from my passenger seat while Brittany leans forward from the backseat, taking in the size of my house. I must have gotten used to living here alone because I don't feel so surprised by the size of the house but I recognize the surprise on Brittany's face. A high schooler living alone in a house way too big for even a family of ten.

I'm not going to say it's not lonely. Because it is. I wish that I had someone to come home to or with. At night, I wish my lights weren't the only one on in the house. I sleep in different rooms every night, trying to get a feel for my own space. It just hasn't really felt like home yet and you can tell. The minute I walk it, I'm greeted by the cold and emptiness of an unoccupied house.

No one has been in this house but me, I realize as I watch Santana and Brittany step into the house. These are the first two people to have come for me. Except the delivery guy.

Santana spins around to face me, "Isn't it kind of… lonely?" She sounds curious, not at all unfriendly.

"I guess so," I reply as I lead the way to the kitchen to grab some drinks and snacks. "It's always been like this so it's not too unusual." I'm not lying, at least. Judy used to disappear a lot for her own purpose reasons. Even when she was there with me, she was in a trance, a world away in her own mind. I learned to live quietly and alone.

Brittany frowns at me, "No one should be alone. You should get a Lord Tubbington!"

"Huh?"

Santana almost smiles, almost. "It's her cat. Britt, she can't have a cat. She has a bird."

_What bird? _"No, I don't," I sound bewildered.

"You have feather tufts all over the couch, though," Santana explains, waving in the direction of the living. There are definitely white feathers from sleeping on the couch with my wings out. Judy told me to rarely take out my wings but really, that's like keeping someone in a straightjacket.

"Oh… It's just the duck feathers from the pillows." Okay, someone needs to award me because I'm somehow weaseling my way out of all these pokes and prods in my life like it's second-nature. Which it's not. Lying makes me uncomfortable and I feel like my wings are darker with each lie, pointing me out like, hey, this is a bad angel! "Anyway, you guys wanna watch a movie? We can go to the movie room." _Wow, what to sound like a brat with a movie room of all things_. I point in the direction of the room, trying to forget the rich-girl words I just said.

Brittany bounces over in the direction that I point to without even answering. When she reaches the room, I hear her exclaim, "Holy moly, Quinn, who even needs this many movies?" And then a quiet crash of what I'm sure are DVDs falling off shelves.

Santana laughs more openly than I've ever heard as she and I follow the girl. I never quite noticed how musical the sound of her laughter was, clear and sweet like bells.

* * *

"I need to go," Brittany whines unhappily, burying her face into the sofa.. "My mom said she's coming."

"Are you sure, Brittany? You chose this movie," I ask with a smile. There's no doubt that I'm warming up to Brittany, whose innocent nature is alluring the way that you can't help but walk over to a puppy and hug it.

"Yeah," she sighs as her phone buzzes in her hand. "She's here. Can I just borrow it later?"

"Mmhmm, I'll walk you downstairs."

Brittany turns to Santana, "Do you want a ride?"

"I think I want to stay and finish the movie," she looks at me. "If that's okay."

I nod, "I'll be right back." I follow Brittany down the stairs and down the front steps, where her mom was peering curiously out the window of her car. Probably making conclusions about me by the appearance of my house.

Brittany leans in for a hug. When she pulls back, she looks at me earnestly. In a tone more serious than anything else about her, she says, "You know, Santana isn't mean or anything, not really at least. Sometimes, she gets scared about people, I think, and it's how she deals with it." She smiles sadly, holding onto my arms like she's trying to tell me something honestly. "But she likes you, Quinn, or she wouldn't have come to hang out otherwise." _So she doesn't hate me, that's a relief._

She spins on her heel, her blonde hair making a blonde blur as she sped down to the car, calling out behind her, "I'll see you guys tomorrow!"

I wave as I watch her get into the waiting car and drive away.

I swing by the kitchen, to grab some ice cream for us. It's easier for me to cope with tension when I have food in my mouth. And something ironic about ice cream: it's an ice breaker. When I get back up the stairs, Santana is waiting quietly, like she's weighing her thoughts. Her thoughts must be heavy because she doesn't seem to hear my steps.

"Hey," I say, seeing my words jolt her. I hold out the pint of ice cream and two spoons. "I'm kind of a Häagen-Dazs coffee-ice-cream girl. You want?"

Santana purses her lips, probably counting the number of calories she can consume before Coach Sylvester sends her to social hell. She seems to dismiss it since she's reaching for the spoon in my hand with a small smile.

"God, I can't even remember the last time I had ice cream," her voice sounds raspier than five minutes ago, a sound that's alluring in a completely different way from Brittany's. The kind of alluring that makes me want to have her whisper secrets in my ear, quietly and huskily. "This is my favorite kind, too." She looks up and smiles at me, no hint of malice in her eyes. _Okay, who the hell are you 'cause you're not Santana_. In the minutes it took to say bye to Brittany, clearly, someone had kidnapped Santana and replaced her with a nicer clone. Her spoon stays in her mouth as she offers a half-smile, which I'm sure is the best she can do.

"I know what you mean," I smile back, digging my spoon in for another spoonful of ice cream.

Our fingertips touch as I wrap my hand around the pint for a better grip.

I'm not sure of what I was expecting, really, when I touched her for the first time. When our fingertips overlapped, I thought maybe we'd burst into flames or butterflies would flutter out of space and fireworks would just start popping or something.

But nothing happened.

And yet, everything happened. I felt every feeling coursing through her mind, the eyes through which she saw the world, the bitterness of being painfully alone, how _done _she was with high school, her exhaustion, her abrasiveness that laid a thin shell over her heart, everything. It all washes over and through me, strong as the current of river. In that infinite instant, I ache for her and with her.

She looks as shocked as I feel and yanks her hand away. _Um..._I clear my throat and try to pretend it didn't happen, though, which is really the only way to go about something like that. Her feelings sat heavy in my heart.

"But, uh, I guess I can do what I want now since I'm almost always alone," I say my thoughts aloud. Besides Noah, the only consistent relationship I've had is with my phone for long-distance calls and the delivery guy, who comes so faithfully when I call for take-out. Good old delivery dude, I should probably learn his name considering this is probably the most stable and longest relationship I've had.

"It can get lonely, even if you have people, you know," she tells me quietly, looking at the surface of the ice cream. "There's a lot of ways to feel alone. If people don't know something about you. If someone can't understand you. If you're the only one. So you do all these things that aren't really you at all, so that you don't feel so alone."

I feel like she's talking from experience if she understands how I feel so well. "That's why we have to go find places and people who make us feel at home."

She laughs humorlessly, "So that's why you came to Lima, Ohio, huh?"

_Yes, sort of. If only you knew... _I smile, "Something like that."

I don't know how long we talk but it's dark out by the time and we didn't even turn on the movie again. Instead, we talk with the movie still blinking its pause button.

I look at my watch and it says… really late and my stomach is starting to protest about not eating anything but ice cream since lunch, which I also managed to skip. "So, is anyone going to call you to nag about the hour?"

She glances down at her phone and shrugs. So I'm going to take that as a no.

_Do you belong to someone? _I want to ask her.

"So do you want some dinner or something?" I get up from the sofa with the now-empty carton of ice cream. "I mean, I can kind of cook but that Thai place makes amazing tom-ka and pad-see-ew. And mango with sticky rice. It's not vegan but it's pretty damn amazing."

She quirks an eyebrow as she asks, "Vegan?"

"It's a habit when you live by a ton of vegan yogis who go to the fruit juice bar for lunch," I helplessly explain, forgetting I'm in Lima.

"I take it that you were one of these, too?"

"Ahem," I can feel the blush heating up my cheeks. "Anyway, is that a yes to dinner?"

Santana smirks but nods with a friendly glint in her eyes.

* * *

"Hey, _angel_," Noah leans in close to whisper, like he's using a secret pet name. _Angel_, he calls me. Thankfully, no one is a believer in such things so I don't have to worry but still, I punch him anyway. He blows air into my ear in a way that he knows annoys me and laughs when I glare at him.

The lunch hour is short but painfully long enough for him to torture me thoroughly.

"What do you want, Noah?" It's been a week since I've been here. I've put on the skanky uniform, joined the Cheerios, and have had the bad-ass jock come pester me almost every lunch hour and yet, I still sit alone at the lunch table. It's annoyingly lonely here, considering that I know almost no one and I can always hear laughter like a whole group of friends exist only on the other side of the glass wall I can't seem to break. Noah bugs me but at least, he's here. Sometimes, if I can't have love and friendship, I'd settle for company, even from Noah Puckerman.

"Okay, so," he looks down like he's nervous, using one hand to rub his Mohawk buzz. "I have a favor to ask you."

"I'm not sleeping with you."

He rolls his eyes, "Please, you'd be lucky to have me as a cuddle buddy. No, I wanted ask you, ahem," he clears his throat and lowers his voice so that the din of the cafeteria covers it. He leans in even closer, his breath tickling my ear, "Can you teach me how to fly?"

"Huh?" With Noah's breath in my ear, I glance around and see Santana, narrowing her eyes at me. Or us. I'm not sure anymore.

Noah shrugs as he pulls away, "I'm not kidding but I must have slept through that, um," a pair of girls walk by, within hearing distance, "That _particular _class 'cause I still can't do it."

"Why is it so important all of the sudden?" I quirk an eyebrow.

He shrugs, not really answering a question. "I feel like it is, like... I just feel it, you know?"

I can still feel Santana's glare on us, the steady gaze. I look up and stare back, thinking about Noah's request. It's not like I have a busy schedule and I'm not really getting anywhere with Santana anymore. When she left after dinner that night, insisting on running home because she only lived about a mile from my house and "ate way too many carbs" as she said, that Santana disappeared and the angry, ferocious Santana came back with a vengeance. On top of that, she seemed to methodically avoid me…

And still, I feel a pull towards her. She's looking back at me and I smile at her. For a second, I see a flash of fear, concern, something indistinguishable in her eyes. Every fiber in my body screams to go protect her, like it's written in my DNA, figuratively speaking.

But it's also probably literally written in my DNA, too.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," I reply, staring back at Santana, our gaze unbroken by the hordes of moving student bodies between us. I completely understand acting upon feelings; I mean, look at me chasing after Santana even when she's blatantly glaring at me. "But I don't know anywhere around here discreet enough to do that."

Noah smiles knowingly, "I do."

* * *

"Feed me, I'm starving. I haven't eaten since lunch," Noah begs. "Like, there's a McDonalds," he points out the window. "Or look, a Jack in the Box, hey hey, a Carl's Jr." He presses against my window, like a desperate puppy. His breath leaves foggy circles on my window.

"Stop it, you're going to leave smear marks on my baby," I hit him with my free hand, keeping my other hand on the wheel. "Wipe it off!"

He pouts as he messily wipes his sweater sleeve on my window. He leans back and crosses his arms like a child, "Fine."

I roll my eyes, "Just tell me where we're going." I lean forward to peer out the window as we drive away from Lima, the town fading away behind us and wildlife emerging before us. A thick forest of trees slowly appear over the horizon as we drove, a medley of greens obscuring my vision.

"Just keep driving straight, we're going to head out to this clearing here that I used to come to," Noah explains, now more focused on learning how to fly. "My handler used to bring me here before he bounced. He wasn't very attentive," he concludes bitterly, leaving a tense silence in the car. I want to ask...but given the expression on his face, I know not to.

I clear my throat and listened to a singer on the radio croon about unrequited love.

_There's a feeling inside I want you to know, that you are the one and I can't let you go, _the voice on the radio sings.

"Take a left here," Noah speaks up suddenly as we approach a small side road, worn under tires, the only mark of a human presence. "And... okay, we can park here."

The music stops abruptly as I turn off my engine and step out of the car, the untouched soil under my feet feels soft and fresh. The scent of crushed pines rush at us, a clean mix of fresh nature and clean air. I close my eyes, hearing the quiet sounds of natural life around us, the birds, the rustles of the leaves and branches, the trickling of water moving somewhere, the quiet whistling of winds. "I love it," I let out in a breathe.

Noah grins, "I know you would. We're not meant for a city life only, you know." He shrugs his backpack on and runs off in a direction into the forest.

"Wow, okay, a little warning please," I call as I run after him, quickly catching up beside him. He takes an easy stride, one that I quickly match until we're running side by side, the crisp air rushing into my lungs as I draw in deep breaths.

Noah turns to me and smiles, more sweetly than I've ever seen him. _Uh oh... _It's never good news when a friend smiles at you like that, unless you want them to and-

"Okay," he interrupts my thoughts, slowing down. "It's just under this way," he says as he jumps lightly over a large tree root. We must have run miles, the inhuman blood in our veins fueling our speed and energies. Not being entirely human has its perks; no wonder, I always aced track and PE.

He lifts a branch, revealing a small tunnel of green where light is bright and streaming just on the other side. When I step through, I hear a gasp escape my own lips. "Wow..."

It's beautiful in an untouched kind of way, a secret garden for those who have tasted flight. There's at least an acre of clear field in front of us, the edges carefully guarded by forestry and trees; no one would see us. I've only been to places like this when we went camping, obscurely far locations. I didn't know I live so close to it now.

Noah rush forward, sprinting in the open field.

I laugh loudly at the sight of this boy, flitting around like a ballerina.

He grins at the sound of my laughter, "Okay, now show me!"

"Demanding," I retort as I summon my wings, stretching them out in a way that felt liberating and free. I tasted flight when I was young and walked with my gaze upward, forever wanting to be there instead of this ground. My wings unfold, a soft shade of white with a tint of grey. I reach out and feeling the soft feathers under my fingers.

"What is that?" Noah asks, pointing to my wings.

"What is what?" I ask but when I turn, I feel his hand on my wings and then a sudden, sharp pain that makes my eyes tear. "What the heck was that for?!" I whip around, a flurry of my blonde hair around me as I turn to to smack him.

He held up a slightly pink feather, "This is from your wings." It was perfectly pastel pink, like cotton candy.

"Um," I don't know what to say. "I don't... know..."

Noah tosses the feather aside, my concern along with it, as he summons his own wings. Noah's wings appear in a flash, fluttering tufts of feathers everywhere, "Whoo!" He whoops as he stretches out his wings, too.

_I swear they're darker, _I notice. It's a light charcoal grey, definitely a few shades darker than the last time I've seen them. My eyebrows knit together, trying to remember what they looked like time.

He turns to me, "Okay, so now what?"

I step out of my thoughts and back into the moment. "Your wings are like your arms, your legs," I begin to explain. "They need to be stretched and have strong muscles. You can't just expect to fly."

Judy took us on trips as often as she could to make us practice flying, with weights, without weights, different aerial tactics, all sorts of weather conditions. Even then, it wasn't as much as an angel needs. No bird belongs in a cage and sometimes, living in a city was like living in a cage: no place to fly. After awhile, you almost forget how to.

But flying for us is like riding a bicycle. You never quite forget how.

I close my eyes and try to think about the last time I laughed, feeling a sort of happiness and contentment. It was with Santana, laughing over dinner about something completely ridiculous. But I remember her smile, her pink full lips curved just so slightly that it was an impossibly devious smile, inviting in all sorts of ways. Her eyes squinted when she laughed, the wrinkle on her nose. The small details brought a smile onto my own face, making all sorts of bubbly feelings inside.

When I open my eyes, I'm a good twenty feet off the ground, above Noah. The sunlight is warm on my back, my wings making the shadow of a bird onto the ground. I laugh, gleefully, feeling free for the first time in a long time. This sky, it's where we belong.

I see Noah, his wings trying to make the same motions as mine, rapid up-down motions. He lifts a few inches before crashing down, his frustration clear on his face. I slow my wings, letting myself gently touch the ground beside.

"You know how sometimes, when you're sad, it feels heavy," I ask as I face him. "Like depression is really a heavy feeling." He nods. "Well, happiness, contentment, joy, they're the opposite. Think of good thoughts as your helium, bad thoughts as heavy weights. You won't always need to think of happy things once you practice more," I recite the words Judy once said to me. "You'll learn to fly without having to force your thoughts but this is how you start."

He looks at my face with a certain expression I can't read. Noah's eyebrows furrow as he grasps for a happy strand of thought. His heavy concentration makes me wonder what he's thinking about. When he closes his eyes, his wings start to bat, a small gust of wind circling around us. I smile as I watch him lift a good few feet off the ground. And then I laugh loudly and openly when he opens his eyes and a look of surprise crosses his face, making him lose his concentration and crash into the ground.

"That was good," I smirk, watching him get up and brush off his dirty jeans. "Do it again."

* * *

I'm sore all over by the time I get to school the next day, it just hurts everywhere. But Noah and I grin at each other knowingly, as we pass each other in the hallway, both of us aching to be in the sky again, wings outstretched, pumping and flying until we're just as exhausted as we were yesterday. The giddiness lasts until Coach Sylvester pulls me into her office after Cheerios practice.

"You have been adequate," she glares at me over the thin frame of her glasses, glancing between me and a sheet of paper in front of her. "You run faster than all my girls by at least a minute. You jump at a record height."

_What is this woman's problem?_ I sound fan-freakin'-tastic on paper, just saying. "I'd say that's better than 'adequate'," I snort, irritated by her derisive tone.

She glares without reserve. "Let's get straight to it then. I don't feel as visually assaulted by your freakish porcelain doll face as I do by most of the student population and their sad, sad inability to look decent and close to human." _Wow, she really doesn't hold back. _"And you proved yourself as a smidgen better than a dancing leprechaun so I'm offering you a permanent Cheerio position."

Considering the words that just flew out of her mouth like daggers to anyone with any kind of heart, I'm not sure if I want to be doing this. "I'll think about it," I stand and leave, completely loving the shocked look on her face that said, _Who the hell denies being a Cheerio? _

_But do I really want this?_ I consider the questions and options as I head back to the locker room.

By the time I get to the locker room to grab my things and be officially done with school for the day, I completely dismiss the offer altogether. Instead, I'm excited to be done with school so I can go back out where my wings can sing until-

"Hi."

A raspy voice reaches out to me, just as I walk through the swinging doors.

You know what they say about extremely beautiful people? They say that, like (no offense) unattractive people, you get used to it and you eventually forget they look extraordinary. And in 99.99% of cases, this remains true.

Santana happens to be that 0.01% exception.

I look towards the voice and when my eyes find the source, all the air rushes into my lungs in a quiet gasp. A half-dressed Santana stands in front of me, clutching her towel close to her chest. The steam of her hot shower gathering in small droplets in the hollows of her collarbones. Her hair, dark as ink when wet, curls around her shoulders, dripping with water. I can see the steam rise from her skin.

And no trace of malice in her eyes. Instead, they're wide and almost inviting, except for the particular set of circumstances we're in.

Santana in nothing but a lacy set of bra and underwear, the red of the lace standing out against her caramel skin.

My palms feel sweaty, I'm pretty sure I have a fever. My stomach feels like it hit the floor. The air stings my eyes as I feel them widen with surprise.

_Real smooth, Fabray. _I clear my throat. "Hey, S."

She smiles at what I call her and nods, tilting her head a little as she mused over it. "I like it." Her lips purse slightly but just enough to make me want to know what her lips taste like.

I'm not sure how I reach her, taking steps slowly enough for neither of us to notice. We move like magnets, like it's our nature to be closer. I don't even notice it until I'm within an arms distance.

From a few inches from me, she repeats the nickname after me, "S." I can hear her draw out the hiss of her name but I'm lost in the gaze of her eyes, dark as her hair, black twilight somewhere in there. And without meaning to, I reach out and my finger grazes her bottom lip ever so lightly.

I didn't mean to, I didn't even know.

But I'm leaning forward, close enough to feel her breath wash over me, the scent of her shampoo lingering in the steamy air.

Her eyes dart as they search my face, although I'm not sure what she's looking for. Maybe she finds it, maybe she doesn't.

Somehow, the distance between us is closing slowly, my hand traces her lips, the curve of her jaw, and lands under chin, tilting it up slightly, pulling it closer.

Her eyes dance around under her closed eyelids, thin as grape skins. Expectation, hers and my own, wash over me and I'm not sure how it really happened. But when I feel her lips land on my own, when I taste Santana's lips, all I can think is, _They write songs about girls like you._

* * *

_Happy 2013, all! You guys left such lovely reviews that I was starting to feel really guilty about not updating in so long. Hahaha So I finished what I had for you as fast as I could. Thanks so much for reading it and really, for all your kind words and thoughts._

_I'll probably start alternating my updates between my stories but we'll see. _

_Happy reading, all! Leave some love & reviews._

**_C._**


	4. Divinity

**Divinity**

* * *

_She's avoiding me._

That girl laughing with Brittany and completely avoiding me. She glances at me from her end of the cafeteria, as though to check if I've looked away. When I catch her in her glimpse, she turns away just as quickly as the moment we shared. It's not just now but at Cheerio practice, advanced English, wherever I go, she's leaving.

But she kissed me back.

She kissed me with her full lips, like... she wanted me as much as I wanted her. A touch, that contact between two people, it doesn't lie. There is no way to edit your touch the way you can edit your words. It is the most basic language and her kiss said she wanted me in that moment, too.

It was like a dream, the kind that made you want to hold on to the fleeting wisps of sleep. Where you roll over and try to slip back into that perfect dream world. Eyes closed, I felt her lips pressing back into mine.

And then the moment slipped away and I woke up.

Santana pulled away, furrowed her eyes with confusion, dressed silently, and left. The taste of spearmint lingered on my lips, painfully cold at the loss of contact.

And ever since then, she's been avoiding me.

A sea of chattering kids separate us but I can't hear anything, see anything. She may as well have been Moses and these irrelevant people could have been the Red Sea; everything parted for her. I rake my fork against my still-full plate absent-mindedly, hardly noticing it until I actually pushed mashed potatoes too hard and the gravy spilled off the tray. _Great_.

I can't quite understand her. She wants to be my friend. She doesn't want to be my friend. She kisses me back. She snaps at me. She avoids me. It's like the bipolar rollercoaster of Santana Lopez, not all fun and games.

"Are you listening to me?" Noah demands in an annoyed tone.

"Huh?"

He narrows his eyes with irritation and suspicion. "You're not even listening, are you," he accuses.

_Guilty._"Um," I try to think about what he just said. Whatever he was talking about did not register even the slightest. I look back at him, trying to muster some semi-decent answer about whatever he was talking about.

But when I glance at him, his eyes move in and out of focus. Noah isn't looking at me, he's looking right through me. His jaw opens to barely part his lips, giving him a slightly dazed look. I turn and glance over my shoulder. _Maybe there's something there._There's nothing and when I look back at him...

It hits me, too.

* * *

_It's suffocating. Not literally but the emotions weigh so heavily, it feels like they are slowly crushing my bones, as easily as foil is crumpled. I'm drowning in every bad thought I've ever had, about me, about anyone. The darkness is a sea that I can't swim in._

_Every doubt, failure, resentment, sadness, jealousy floods into my mind, stripping me of everything I am until I am simply bones._

_And I try to think of something good. My thoughts grasp for Judy. For Puck. For Emma. For cheeseburgers and chocolate, maybe french fries, but only if they're from Jack-in-the-Box. Like the curly fries. Honestly, for anything and anyone desperately to pull me out of this crushing sea of darkness and if that's going to greasy curly fries, then so be it. Just let me have a lifeline, save me._

_But nothing saves me. Every good thought slips away from me like sand. Something tethers to my ankle and drags me down to a darkness even darker than night and greater than my mind can fathom._

_Please save me._

_When nothing reaches out, no cool hand pulling from the heat of this hell that's entirely mine. I am Atlantis, an entire city of emotions slowly sinking and drowning in a sea, too much to be saved._

_So I let the darkness take over._

* * *

"Quinn," a voice reaches out. Something grips my shoulder and shakes me. "Quinn, hey, Quinn."

_Please, someone save me. _And like someone heard my plea, the feeling slowly lifts. Oxygen rushes into my lungs, my chest expanding with the air I can suddenly inhale. I can't see anything but my fingers grip onto a cool surface. My fingers slip through holes in the surface. Cafeteria table. _I'm in the cafeteria_, I remind myself.

I blink myself awake, my vision slowly focusing on the hand waving in front of me. A large, beefy hand. Noah is looking back at me, trying to get my attention. Students are milling around us, pushing to throw their trash away or heading out the door. The seat where Santana was sitting is empty now, a crumpled milk carton and a plate of wilting lettuce left behind as the only evidence.

I look back at my hands, still gripping the cafeteria table. Exhaustion settles into my bones, that feeling of having lived a full life and wanting to finally reach end. Even my teeth hurt from being so tired.

"Did you feel it, too," Noah lowers his voice, barely audible over the din of the impatient students. His face looks almost gaunt, suddenly looking much older than he was.

I nod. He must have felt it, too, because he looks completely frazzled, like someone jolted him awake just as he was falling asleep. I probably look just as bewildered, since a look of concern crosses his face as he studies me.

"We'll talk about it later," I say as I get up and sling my bag over my shoulder. I reach out to him with my mind, meeting his consciousness. "_Field?"_

Noah nods and replies silently to any outside ears. "_Field_." We must have looked strange, standing there, nodding and walking off but it seems to be the safer way of communication when we're surrounded by everyone else. No one else knows about our meetings and we keep it that. I'm sure having wings and talking about purpose qualifies you as a grade-A freak.

He shuffles away cautiously, still shaking off the heavy feelings of whatever just happened.

* * *

I love this field. It's so open that sometimes, it hurts to look at the horizon, its straight line punctured by the swaying silhouette of grass kissed by a breeze. Small flowers, untouched by any human hands or pesticides or whatever junk they put into plants these days, speckle the green, colors puncturing the green field. It's warm here, like a little oasis hidden away in nature. The sun reaches warm rays of light, warming my face. And it smells fresh, like new soil or that almost-minty scent of grass. The grass feels cool and soft under my unfurled wings, stretched behind me, a soft cushion of feathers as my bed.

Honestly, I'd move out here if it weren't so far from school and had a shower.

For now, I settle for a good nap on this grass, waiting for Noah to get here.

We meet here almost every weekend. Today is an exception since that freak accident of crushing emotions is not normal. I'm positive no one else felt it because only Noah and I sported bewilderment on our faces like Ray Ban glasses.

"How do you always here before me?" Noah's sentences are interrupted by his panting.

"_You _try being a Cheerio. You'll be doing handstand push-ups and running like a fat kid runs after the last Twinkie," I answer without bothering to open my eyes.

"I'd sprint for _the _last Twinkie, since they don't make 'em anymore," Noah jokes, bending and catching his breath. "It's practically a collectible now."

I give him a few moments. Let him breathe before we launch into a conversation. My hands feel clammy just recollecting the sliver of hell I endured during lunch hour. That heaviness, that melancholy, the absolute, inescapable _despair_.

Noah plops down next to me, a flurry of grey feathers flying into the air, his own wings a soft and darker grey. Every time I see them, I'm convinced they're darker and darker. Even now, he has soft charcoal grey. It's almost lovely, a soothing shade of slate grey, like the color of steam that rises from a hot coffee.

"It was crushing you, too, wasn't it?" Noah's question comes quietly, like a secret. He brushes his mind against mine. For a moment, I feel the rush of emotions he felt when he delved into the same darkness at lunch. Insecurities, grief, anger, hopelessness, disappointment and the strongest, _jealousy_. I quickly pull back away from his mind, feeling embarrassed that I know so much about his feelings and conscious that he must have a glimmer of my innermost feelings. _Damn it, Santana_. There was no way he didn't see that I was thinking about Santana, especially since she's all that's been on my mind lately.

He pulls back as quickly, aware of the mental intrusion he made by brushing against mine. Noah clears his throat uncomfortably, his ears prickled with embarrassment. "What do you think it was?"

"I don't know," I muse, looking at orange-streaked sky. If I weren't so distracted, I would probably watch the clouds aimlessly float on. "I'm going to ask Judy about it, I think. It was so overwhelming and..."

"You should ask about your wings, too," Noah suggests quietly. He tries to deliver his suggestion as delicately as possible; he's aware of how self-conscious I felt about my wings. "It's not just one, you know, and it's not even pink."

He's right. Noah first pointed out how my wings were slowly changing into a fluff of pastel pink. The pink spread from the bottom and worked its way up until every feather was touched carefully by a light tone of pink. It was almost beautiful for a bit, like someone washed it with a light watercolor.

Slowly, one by one, they changed into a deeper, fuller shade of red. Not all of them were red, but the feathers touched fullest by whatever was happening was a deep shade, a rich blood-red, almost burgundy. The color spread from the top, like someone had poured wine down my feathers, slowly soaking it in its rich shades of red and burgundy. A gradient of wine red slowly spreading downwards. A few feathers at the tips managed to stay white but I suspect that won't last. And I can't say it's not worrisome.

Noah reached out a hand, like he wanted to touch the feathers that looked like rubies, but drew back.

I get up to my feet and find my way to the rocky boulders near the edge of the field. Maybe twenty feet off the ground, I climb my way to the peak of the boulders, spreading my wings, eyes closed. Wind whistles through my outstretched fingers.

_Inhale, exhale, _my thoughts rush like the wind, along with the wind, skimming the wind.

And I hurl myself, the breeze catching me by the wings. I can't help but laugh out loud.

There's no feeling like flying. Every problem feels insignificant when you throw it to the sky, the ground pulling away from me and dragging all my problems away with it.

I hear two powerful beats of feathers. Noah appears next to me, his joy written across his face. Right now, right here, we just have the wind.

_We're going to be okay._

* * *

"It's unusual," Judy responds after some time. "I've never heard of anyone's wings turning red. I'm going to have to go to the Network's Council for this. Quinn, be cautious of what's happening."

"Okay," I reply, slightly unnerved that she can't give me answers. If she has to go to the Network's Council of Elders for it, this is serious. Usually, she can give me all the answers I need to hear. "And what about the emotional attack? I mean, I can't keep crumpling down at school. I look like I have some life-threatening disease, Judy," I complain. The name-calling is only being held off because I'm a Cheerio, I swear.

"Quinn, I need you to be really careful. Those aren't just emotional attacks," Judy says her words slowly, mulling over how she's going to tell me whatever is about to change my life. I grip my phone and press myself into the sofa cushion, bracing myself for whatever and mentally compiling a list of what it could be. _Divine dinosaurs stampeding through the world. The Holy puppet master drinking too much wine and spill it on our wings. Wings being dipped in evil Kool-Aid. _"That's how you know the Fallen are coming."

_The Fallen. You're freakin' kidding me. _"The Fallen?! Why are they hanging around Lima?" I sound incredulous. "It's not a Mecca of holiness here! I mean, kids are vicious here. If anything, these people are the Fallen. I'm pretty sure my Cheerio coach is the devil," I consider it seriously for a moment. Coach Sylvester definitely has the makings of a Fallen Angel. But no, she's too ordinary, too human.

"I can't say why the Fallen are coming to you. Between that and your wings, something is wrong here, something is happening," Judy responds, sounding unsure for the first time.

"Not helping." _And to think my problems ended with the Advanced English exam next week_.

"Don't be snarky," Judy scolds. Her nagging is instantly warm and familiar. I wish I were back in California with her, where I had friends and a sort-of family. When I didn't live with a house full of emptiness and echoes. The sun is always warmly glowing; even when you were inside, you knew you only needed to step outside to feel that kind of natural warmth that glowed. Even the people were at least eight notches friendlier than the people in Lima, Ohio. I practically bribe the delivery boy to like me with generous tips. In return, he gives an uncertain smile and boxes of Chinese take-out.

"Work on your Divinity," Judy suggests.

"Why?" _What good is Nirvana going to do_, I want to ask but I bite my tongue.

"I know you think you've accomplished Divinity, Q, but that's not how it works," Judy explains patiently. Somehow, in the midst of dealing with my teenager angst, she manages to soothe my anxieties. Her tone is quiet and patient, a constant source of stability. I smile into the phone, listening to her soothing voice as she tries to explain. "You know the way that the Fallen made you felt, it was like being dragged down, right? Heavy feelings, heavy thoughts, heavy everything?"

_Yep, definitely the Fallen. _"All too well."

"Divinity is like flight. It's the weightlessness when you fly, it's that _peace _you feel when you're in the sky," Judy speaks in metaphors most days. This is pretty specific for her. "Darkness is the absence of light, right?"

"Mmhmm."

"Divinity is the light that comes into that space. The reason the Fallen avoid it is because it burns so brightly, they don't have the capacity to be lifted into the light."

"What does it look like when I've gone into Divinity?" I've kind of glowed a little bit. That could have just been blonde hair meeting the sun.

"You'll know."

_Gee, thanks for the step-by-step manual_. I sigh. This was only a smidgen more than I already knew but I guess it's better than nothing. "Thanks, Judy. Will you let me know if you learn anything about my wings?"

"Of course," she pauses for a moment. "I miss you here. It's not the same."

_Don't cry, Quinn, please don't cry_. The back of my eyes hurt as I try to hold back the tears. I never realized how homesick I felt until she said those words. It was too much, missing someone who missed you back. "I miss you, too."

* * *

"Can someone tell me what E. E. Cummings is talking about when he says, 'Here is the deepest secret nobody knows'? Anyone?" Mr. Briggs holds his book in one hand as he observes his choice of prey. This is my favorite poem and I want to answer but I doubt it will do me any good to raise my hand willingly. His eyes land on a very bored Santana Lopez, her eyes cast out the window. "Miss Lopez?"

"Like any poem, it can be interpreted in a lot of ways," she replies smartly, not even turning away from the window to look at Mr. Briggs. Her voice is composed and even as she continues, "It's different, depending on your perspective, so it can vary from person to person."

"Then what do _you _think it means?"

She pauses, considering his question. It doesn't harm her reputation that Santana Lopez, head Cheerio and hottest girl at school, is also brilliant. "To me, it means that you're holding someone else close to your heart. Your essence starts with this person's heart, the place from which roots settle deeply and branches reach outwardly. It's about love."

I'm watching her, like everyone in the class, but she looks at me as she concludes, "And it's about how no one knows about that."

"Very good, Miss Lopez. As she…" Mr. Briggs' voice fades away as Santana and I hold a gaze. It's the longest that we've shared contact since we've kissed, even wordless contact. I want to reach out my consciousness but that tends to earn a frightened response from most humans. She tilts her chin up slightly, as though to challenge me.

And I don't.

When the bell releases us from class, I go to my locker, putting away my books for the day. It's always a relief to be done with school, not because it's hard but because keeping up these walls to not feel every high school student's emotions and anxieties is difficult. I have enough of my own feelings to manage.

I sigh, pulling the last of my books from my bag and into my locker.

"Don't you dare." Santana's voice cuts through my sigh, laced with anger. I turn to face her, her glare burning.

"What? I didn't—"

"Not you," she interrupts me before I can deny having done anything. "_Him_."

My ears prickle at the anger in her tone, the serious threat in her words. I look behind me. A jock, one of the faceless mass in this school, is holding a cup of… slushie? I feel confused. Why is Santana not letting some kid drink his slushie?

She takes a menacing step forward, and then another. Santana takes a step around me, standing between me and the jock. Her voice comes out calmly and all the more threatening as she speaks, completely controlling the situation, "Quinn is now a Cheerio. You never slushie a Cheerio. Understood?"

_Oh. He was going to throw that at me_. I cringe, thinking about the unwelcome drip of ice down my clothes. That high-fructose corn syrup would stain straight into my skin.

He looks like a scared deer, nodding his head frantically before scurrying away.

I sigh, relieved that I won't be suffering a slushie attack. Santana turns around to look at me, her gaze so intense that I lean against my locker.

Her eyes study my face and I study her. The students mill around us, as usual, but when her dark eyes lock onto mine, I feel like the world is silent. Somehow, nothing else matters. No Fallen, no red wings, no purpose. Just me and Santana Lopez.

"You have me in your corner now, okay?" Santana asks me, no trace of malice anywhere. Her voice isn't honeyed or over-friendly; she just sounds genuine, a raspy tone of honesty. She clears her throat uncomfortably, probably realizing how nice she sounded, and tries to redeem herself, "I mean, you're a Cheerio now and no one messes with us."

"Thanks, Santana," I'm overwhelmed momentarily, trying not to be touched by her promise. Granted, I've moved to a town all by myself and have no substantial relationships or social contacts; so yeah, maybe I'm a little emotional because someone shows an inkling of kindness.

Santana smiles, just so slightly that a small dimple caves in her cheek. She narrows her eyes slightly, like she's making a decision. It must not have taken long to decide because she gives a slight nod, "Let's go for a drive, Fabray."

Her hair whooshes around her as she turns.

I would have gone with her even if she asked me to go murder a puppy with her.

* * *

"Where, though?" I roll over to bend my elbow and prop my head, looking at her. Thank goodness her car is squeaky clean or sitting on top of it would have made our uniforms more black than red. Coach Sylvester would probably combust into flames if she saw that. Santana laughed a little, like she was trying to hold it back. I ask again, "Honestly, if you had to hide a murder weapon, where in the world would you put it? And don't you dare say under the floorboards because that's so cliché that it would be the first place I'd look."

Santana's eyes sparkle as she laughs loudly, "Okay, honestly. Honestly?"

I nod.

She whispers, "I'd bury it in my walls." The huskiness of that whisper sends chills down my spine. She laughs openly at my clearly-scared response.

I shiver, "Okay, change of topic! I can't do scary things this long." I lie back down, facing the sky again.

The sun feels warm on our faces. Her car was sitting in the parking lot all day, gathering enough heat to warm our backsides as we lie flat on the roof of her car, watching the sun slowly retreat.

_I love wasting time with you_, I think, glancing over at her.

When she said, "Let's go for a drive," I have to admit it was almost intimidating. Santana had put me in her car and drove. At first, I felt anxious about where she was taking me. I mean, that is a legitimate concern in Los Angeles. Rule number one: you drive yourself to places if you don't want to get kidnapped. But that anxiety quickly faded away when Santana hummed in a care-free way that made my lips perk into a smile. She drummed her fingers against the wheel as she drove, beating to the sound of her hum.

I had let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding until then. My shoulders relaxed, tension over all these side problems washing away with the sound of her voice. I felt like a winding music box, this empty box that needed her to sing, hum, drum to feel like I was working. Like I was all wound up until she started singing and suddenly, I was slowly unwinding, every breath held escaping with the sound of her voice.

"You can be a one-man band," I had joked, watching her slowly form a melody all on her own. "Give Taylor Swift a run for her money. Just remember your Cheerios when you're accepting your Grammy."

She had grinned. _Yes, point: Fabray_. If every word that came out of my lips could make her smile like that, and I mean really smile, I'd talk until my voice gave out.

It turned out she was driving with direction, not aimlessly wandering around like I seem to always be doing when I get in the car. Santana didn't tell me where we were going and I was perfectly content to let her drive. She slowly pulled her car to a lakeside and got out. Before I knew it, she was climbing onto the rooftop, holding out her hand to pull me up. I, less than gracefully, clawed myself onto the rooftop, enjoying the sunlight.

The lake sparkled, a medley of colors casted on its surface. It looked like broken shards of glass, the way it glistened. It was quiet in that way only a non-metropolitan city could be. I soak it all in, hungry for that warmth, the light. It's the angel in me, but methinks there is not enough light to feed an angel's hunger for light.

I look over at Santana, who is leaning back, her hair spilling down her shoulders like black ink. She kicked off her shoes, her bare feet crossed at the ankles. For once, she's not sporting a look of defiance and anger.

"You look happy," I admit to her, thinking more out loud than anything, really.

She smiles without looking at me, her eyes cast somewhere in the sky. "I am," she replies, bringing her hands behind her head as she laid on top of the car. "This is where I come to get out of Lima, out of my head. Sometimes, you just need an open sky to figure out things and not care about the petty things. You know?"

_You never fail to surprise me_, I think. Santana Lopez, the Yoda of Ohio.

The sun takes its time to set, giving us a chance to launch into conversation. She laughs, I laugh. Our conversation flows easily as the water beside us, our words mixing like all the molecules in the air. I tell her about Los Angeles, random stories from when I was young. She hands back her own stories, delicate as a peach, like she would bruise if I didn't handle her stories carefully.

I am careful not to touch her, unsure of how much of her mind would pour into mine or vice versa. I like this better, Santana handing me her life story (though she acts she's describing random moments in her life) willingly and not because our minds are mingling.

When the sun finally hides under the horizon, a dark sky and moon climbing to take over, we crawled back into the car. As soon as I sit, I can feel (and hear) the familiar hum of my phone vibrating somewhere.

"It's here," Santana laughs as she watches me frantically search for it before it stops ringing. She points to my seat, which I pry apart the cushion to find my phone buried there. I grin at her as I answer, "Hello?"

"_Where are you_," Noah sounds peeved.

"I'm with Santana." As soon as I say her name, I feel a wave of jealousy flood through the phone, as intimately as my own emotions. "Holy shit, calm down," I say without thinking, responding to his emotions before he can even say anything. Santana quirks an eyebrow as she places her hands on the wheel.

"_Whatever_," Noah hangs up without replying. I'm still shaking from the force of his jealousy, completely oblivious to the fact that Santana had already started the car and started to pull onto the highway. I hate it when he acts like a child so suddenly; it throws me off.

"You okay?" She asks me in a husky voice, the roughness of it sending chills across my skin. I find it soothing that Santana can sense my discomfort as she keeps her eyes on the road, never taking it off once. She's so sure in her movements, effortlessly precise. I hate admitting it but it gives me a chance to look at her without her looking at me back. And her posture, the casual glances to me, her hair spilling over her shoulders, it feels as familiar as the LA skyline to me, like I've known the landscape of Santana Lopez as well as my home.

"Yeah, Noah is just being weird," I reply, facing her and trying to shake off my irritation with Noah. I can't help but smile when she smirks like that. "What?"

"You call him Noah," she chuckles, bringing one hand to her mouth. "I don't know anyone who knows him as Noah." She pauses. "Are you guys a thing?"

The mere thought of dating Noah is too much; he's like a friend or brother. Sharing angeldom with him is close enough. "No, don't even joke about that," I laugh, arms clutching around my waist.

She's trying not to grin, I can tell, but a slight dimple in her cheeks gives her away. Time passes quickly enough that we're at my house sooner than I wish.

"So," she says as she pulls into my driveway.

"So." I clear my throat and smile at her. "Thanks for today, I needed the break."

She nods, a small but genuine smile on her lips. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow?" Her words are more of a question than a statement. She swiped her dry lips against my cheek, gone before they were actually there.

I nod and step out of the car, holding onto my bag and jacket. As she drives away, I feel something pull me, like a string tied to my insides is attached to the back of her bumper, taking something of mine away with her as she left. I was unraveling like the yarn from a sweater and Santana was holding the loose end.

* * *

I don't even have to look for Noah because I know where he goes when he's thinking. It was probably his mistake to share that field with me. I know that I'm not exactly BFF of the year but his tantrum was completely uncalled for. By the time I get there, he's on his back staring at the sky._ Well, more like scowling._

"Okay, what is your deal," I call out before he even sees me. He just shoved a random freshman before lunch, for no reason, glowering as he passed people in the hallways. I heard he just got up in the middle of remedial algebra and stalked out. He must have been here since because no one could tell me where he was all day. "Noah, you can't just do things like hang up on people and bully freshmen whenever you feel like it."

"What do you care," he snaps at me. "Why don't you go and prance around with your little _purpose_?"

I flinch at the malice he shoves into that word. It's unlike him to be so harsh with me. "You know she's important to me, Noah. Someday, you'll have a purpose who you have to look out for, too. Why can't you just let that be?"

"You're not just looking out for her and you know it," he snarls. He glares as he turns and walks away.

I hate this. It's not being an angel but it's just being a person that makes me uncomfortable when I know someone is angry with me. The discomfort is distracting enough that I almost didn't notice it until Noah's back was turned to me and he crouched to jump into flight.

His wings are darker as the charcoal from which smoke rises. It wasn't inviting anymore, like they were when they were a tender grey. The feathers, definitely darker and almost haughty, were menacing, a threat hidden in his wings.

"Noah!"

But he was already gone, a small grey speck in the sky.

* * *

I come back to the lake that Santana drove us to. It feels almost wrong to be in the field right now when Noah's energy is so angry, like it's just not this place to be practicing Divinity. So I got in my car and drove, my mind completely preoccupied with Noah's temperament, and somehow, I ended up back here. At this empty lake.

No one was here yesterday and no one is here today. I suspect Santana uses this as her thinking place because it's so quiet, the serene kind of silence that follows the end of a song.

Even though we were here yesterday, I feel like we were here together only moments ago. It may be the echoes of her presence in this place but it has a calming effect.

The lake is dark at night and I walk out to the low-deck pier, the tender wood cold enough to feel damp under my feet. When I reach the end of it, I sit cross-legged.

The air rushes in cleanly into my lungs, crisp enough to feel fresh. _Nope, definitely not LA_. It wasn't smoggy or full of car exhaust. I close my eyes, feeling the ripples of Santana's presence from yesterday wash away the anxiety.

_Inhale, exhale. _The air flows calmly, naturally and directionless as the water in a river. Walls around my mind slowly drop, the consciousness of everything around me touching my heart. I feel every molecule of life in the water, every reed in the lake. The wind, the soft movement of water as the wind kisses its surface. And I feel love, the love of life, the love of these creatures for each other, their love for the land, the wind's love for the open sky, my love for this Earth and the people who walk on it and the creatures whose consciousness brush mine.

Light shines through the thin skin of my eyelids. When I open it, my palms are glowing, small circles on my palms pulsing with a soft, tempered light.

This is Divinity. To feel life and love without walls, inhibition, insecurities. To be aware of the truest truths: we are alive and there is love in this world.

* * *

_Hello, dear readers!_

_Sorry this one took so long. I decided to adjust the direction of the story to have it actually be a pretty full/long storyline (long, in my opinion) and of course, life has swept me up in its usual chaos and troubles. _

_Thank you guys so much for the wonderful reviews. It's always really encouraging and great. It makes writing for you guys an absolute pleasure. _

_Leave some love & reviews! _

_C._


	5. Teacher

**Teacher**

* * *

"Mmmmm, no," I murmur into my pillow. If I bury myself into the bed, maybe whoever it is will go away. My arms swipes under the pillow, looking for my phone somewhere in the bed. _I definitely had it when I fell asleep- Oh._ My hand hits a cold, smooth object. _6:03 AM_, it blinks at me. _Who rings a door at 6:03AM on a Saturday?_

No.

Just no. Not getting out of bed at this hour. Not on a weekend.

But the doorbell rings again, with a little more intention. Whoever it is is definitely going away.

I shiver when my feet hit the cold floorboards, jerking me awake. _This better be opportunity literally knocking on my front door_, I think, completely still fazed with sleep.

The doorbell rings again.

"I'm coming," I call to the door I'm only few feet away from. Whoever it is, he's tall. And definitely a he. His shadow blocks some of the light coming through the glass windows.

The knob feels unusually warm, granted, a pleasant kind of warm but still warm, when I place my hand to twist. And it makes sense, I suppose, in retrospect, considering who is on the other side of that door.

When the door swings open, I see the silhouette of a man, my eyes still adjusting to the morning rays of light streaming behind him. His outline shines brightly, I'm surprised it doesn't burn me.

"Hello, Quinn," a deep voice rumbles from the silhouette. The voice sounds magnificent and great, like the roar of lion. Though it had the capacity to shake the depths of hell, his voice was warm and kind. "My name is Sabathiel. The Network was contacted by Judy. I am here to be your teacher. You may call me Sab."

_So much for pleasantries. _

He steps towards me, and I cautiously take a step backwards.

This is definitely not something I expect on a Saturday morning, mind you, so maybe that's what irks my suspicion. But he brushes his consciousness against mine, so carefully and slightly as if to reassure me, and his warmth and light floods the touch. It's spring, summer, love, light, sunsets, and sunrises inside his mind, rippling brilliantly outwardly. His mind is old and wise, experienced with the long years he has lived. He speaks the truest truths, simply put, and resonates light.

I nod, convinced. When I step aside to let him, he walks slowly and carefully. Sab's steps are deliberate, each with the accuracy of someone who is not used to walking and is concentrating on staying on the ground, while being so fascinated by the firmness of a ground. Clearly, he's not used to walking to places.

I lead him into the living room, where he sits stiffly on the sofa. I clear my throat and approach the seat across. A silence lulls uncomfortably while I observe him, the first of the Network I've met. He's tall and beautiful that almost screams that he's divine. Dark chestnut-colored hair, not messy but a little windblown. Sab runs a hand through his hair, carefully combing it with his fine fingers. The features on his face are all defined, perfectly symmetrical, as though an artist had sat down and meticulously sculpted his face. His suit was carefully tailored, a light grey that made his attire seem almost casual. He must have been centuries old but he didn't look a day over thirty.

"What are you here to teach me, Sab? I don't think every one of us gets a teacher on top of a mentor. Why do I need a teacher? And why now?" A flood of questions slowly rise from the pit of my stomach. It unnerves me that he maintained a stoic face the whole time. But at my incessant questions, his lips perks into a small smile, instantly comforting me.

"We have been informed of your... condition, Quinn," Sab replies carefully, his voice resonating throughout the room, through my body, and echoes across my mind. He wasn't just speaking in the Earthly dimension. "Has Judy ever told you of the Red Dahlia?"

I shake my head no.

"Well, I suppose that's good. It means it remain a well-kept secret," he continues, amused. "You know that we have a purpose, Quinn. Sometimes, though, the universe intervenes when something goes awry. The Fallen, which I'm sure you've heard of," he looks at me expectantly and I nod. _It seems like I can't get away from the Fallen_. "Well, the Fallen are an example of deviations. They have been misled into the darkest parts of the universe and pose a threat."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"You're eager and curious. Good, that will help you," he notes, pleased. "The Red Dahlia are the red-winged who are chosen to redirect our paths, to right the wrongs. And it seems that you, Quinn, have been chosen by the universe as the situation of the Fallen becomes more perilous." He looks at me intensely. "They are gathering and preparing."

_What. No. I, no. _Disbelief numbs my mind, unable to really process his words. There are more Fallen than I've even heard of; I am just one.

"Why hasn't this happened before, when the Fallen first emerged?" I ask quietly, still trying to comprehend the enormity of the situation. "Judy told they have been here for centuries."

Sab nods sympathetically, patiently answering my questions. "The universe moves at its own pace. It is wise, it is old. It is not insignificant as an Facebook update or retweeting. Its decision affect the entire universe and beyond. It seems that it is time to bring our family, our brothers, home."

"Why me?"

"Prophecy, Quinn, of sorts has pointed to you," Sab's eyes sparkle with a sort of awe and determined purpose. "We all have visions. Some of ours overlap, meant to save or aid a single person. I have known for some time that a Red Dahlia would emerge. Others have been involved in the Red Dahlia's preparations, perhaps indirectly but more necessary than we realize. And I suspect, there are a few who are meant to aid you in this, Red." _Red,_he calls me like it's my name.

"How often does a Red Dahlia emerge?" I can't stop the questions but I need to know if there is someone who is like me. Someone, perhaps, more suitable. Or at least, someone who can tell me what it's like.

"Very rarely, Quinn. I believe the last one was, like you said, centuries ago," Sab seems to respect me as an equal, despite the decades, maybe centuries, that seem to separate us.

"How am I supposed to do anything?" I panick. It took all my energy to even reach a meager state of Divinity. I don't know how to fight an army; I can barely beat Noah at a race. My wings are smaller than his, though the red gives it a particular dramatic flair.

"Quinn, you mustn't doubt yourself. You are chosen for a reason," he reassures me as he runs his hands across the front of his pants, smoothing them out. "But you're right. As you are, you are not ready. Which is why I am here."

I quirk an eyebrow.

"You are my purpose," he states calmly, unaware of how his words just hit me like a hammer to the heart, cracking my demeanor. "Preparing you is what I am here to do."

The weight of his words finally settle in. I'm not alone. I am here to do good. But what about Santana?

"What about my purpose? She's still here and I haven't saved her. I'm her Guardian."

He smiles knowingly. "You underestimate the complexity of the universe's plans, Quinn. How do you know truly who you are guarding isn't key to everything? But let us dismiss the questions for now. Preparations are more important and you will see, in time, how destiny plays out."

Sab stands, "I will be back later, after I scout a location safe for practice. I suggest you prepare for practice." He turns and ...evaporates before I can call him back. _Well, that's a new trick._

* * *

After Sab leaves, the doorbell rings again.

_So popular on a Saturday_, I groan inwardly. I kind of just want to sleep but... apparently, no one else wants that. I get up from the sofa, where I'm still sitting, dazed by Sab's words. He promised he would be back but gave no indication of what time; he said time was a human measurement.

But I find Noah on my front step. Head down, shoulders slumped, hands buried in his pockets. He looks so defeated, like a kicked puppy, that all my irritation is immediately washed away by my concern for him. He is still my best friend.

I wordlessly jerk my head towards inside my house and step aside to let him through. The way he sighs a breath of relief makes me grin; he's so easily appeased.

Noah follows me to the kitchen where I pull orange juice from the fridge. The extra-pulp kind. I mean, if I'm going to drink orange juice, I'm not going to jip myself of the actually pulpiness of it, you know?

He watches intently, with a goofy grin, as I pour him a glass and carry our drinks to the living room. Even now, I can feel nerves rolling off of him. Noah sits stiffly on the sofa, not unlike Sab. But Noah sits with discomfort, where Sab sat with unfamiliarity of human surroundings. I sit next to him; it's easier on him if I'm not actually staring him down. Instead, I look at the pulp swirl around my cup, waiting for him to say what he came to say.

"I'm sorry, Q," Noah starts, clearing his throat. "I just- I don't know what that was about and it was honestly like it was wasn't even me. Those weren't my emotions, you know?" He slumps defeatedly into the sofa cushion.

I purse my lips and nod. "I know. And it makes sense. The whole situation is always screwing us with emotions that aren't ours." I lean back, my shoulder pressing against his.

A sigh escapes my lips. A sigh of relief and exhaustion. All these smaller sighs in just one sigh. I lean my head against his shoulder and he lightly rolls his head so it's pressing against the top of mine.

Noah's voice comes out much lower. "I've been getting clarity about my vision, and it's just been really confusing. I can't tell the vision apart from reality," Noah admits bitterly.

"I know, Noah," I reassure him. It's so hard watching him struggle with this, especially when I know how frustrating it can be to know so little about your purpose and yet, feel every fiber in your body screaming to move, go, fly, do _something_that will amount to everything.

"But we cool?" Noah asks hesitatingly. "I mean, I know I've been a dick lately and I'm really sorry..." His voice dwindles into silence.

I elbow him, joking, "You're always a dick," my head shakes against his as we laugh. "But you wouldn't Noah Puckerman, best friend, if you weren't."

I feel his chest sigh. Oh, Noah, he thinks he's such a bad-ass sometimes. He tries so hard to be rough, poor guy, and yet, it goes against his very nature. Leaning against each other, our minds press enough to let me know how sorry he really was. Sab's mind was magnificent and bright; Noah's mind flickered like a lantern in a dark maze. He was still trying to figure everything out.

_We're so much more alike_, I press my lips together in thought.

And we sit there, heads pressed against each other like we're holding onto each other's sanity as our own lifelines.

* * *

"Again," Sab commands.

We're in the field, on the apex of a rock that sits in the middle. I'm sure this wasn't here before but Sab seems to know that.

Sab stands near me, his wings, such a brilliant white that it's hard to look directly at it without blinding myself. The feathers are longer, the wingspan wider.

My own wings are such a deep shade of red, rich like wine. The feathers are the darkest shade of red the closer they are to my shoulder blades. Each feather was touched, now, by the red, even the ones that were white. The color of blood spread from the core to the wingtip.

I close my eyes again, trying to reach that place inside of my mind where the light gathered. I know it's there but it's like pressing up against a window, the light just on the other side. I felt it flicker, that truth that made my palms glow before. I open my eyes to find Sab, shaking his head.

"Why is it so much harder now?"

"Your mind is not clear, Red," Sab replies simply. He sits across me, his meticulous suit pants gathering dirt from sitting down but he didn't seem to care. Sab looks deep in thought. "Red, I am going to try something. I do not want you to be frightened, alright?"

_Too late_. Whenever someone says that, you know it's going to be scary. Just like when someone says, "No offense but..." and a completely offensive thing comes out of their mouth.

But I nod. This is not a time for fear.

"Close your eyes."

I do.

I feel his consciousness approaching mine, a golden light that brightens before even touching my own mind. The light seeps into my heart, my mind, my soul, slowly washing away everything inside with a kind of warmth that's hard to even describe. Warmth trickles into the darkest corners of my mind and I let myself go.

"Open your eyes," his words thunders across the connection, silent to the outside world but roaring in my mind.

When I do, I'm no longer seeing through my eyes but his. The colors are more vivid, perhaps a little more green than I expected. Each sound echoes in my ears, like I'm inside an ampitheatre. But it's the warmth I feel, the sun rays that hit our faces. I feel... his love for this place, this Earth that he does not even walk but feels so much for. The ground isn't just holding him, it's lifting him up. The sun is not just warming him, but wrapping him in light. The wind isn't blowing against him or from him, but hugging him from every angle. He finds love in every crevice of the world. I'm inside his Divinity.

And I'm glowing. Not just my palms but my elbows, my shins, even my pinky toe.

My wings, those red wings, stretch out, a magnificent medley of red and gold, like the inside of a luxurious opera house, Victorian shades of brilliance.

I watch in awe as the gold seeps away, as Sab draws away his mind.

"_That _is Divinity, Red," Sab explains, smiling at my reaction. "And trust me, it is nothing compared to what you will accomplish."

"But... how?" I can barely make my palms glow on my own.

"You'll find a reason to reach that place, too," Sab reassures me with vague explanations. I smile, thinking that someday I'll be able to do that, too. And it'll be different for me... "Okay, again."

* * *

"You look tired, Q," Santana reaches out a hand like she's about to comb her fingers through my hair or brush my cheek. Or she wants to, at least. That nickname is really starting to grow on me. Q, like my life is on _queue_. Queue, the way everything else but Santana seems like when I'm around her. Everything but Santana is on queue.

All these Cheerios rushing to get home from practice but Santana Lopez leans against the locker next to me, impeccable as ever. She presses her shoulder against the metal and stands on one leg as she crosses the other across her ankles.

She doesn't touch my face or hair, though. Instead, her hand drops to my shoulder, squeezing it lightly like she's reassuring me.

I smile. Tired is exactly what it was; Sab made me strain my mental strength until I couldn't think anymore. And I barely got a flicker in the end. "Yeah, I am pretty tired. Just feeling a little overworked, you know?"

Santana grins, "What do you say to a little break?"

I quirk an eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"

"Wellllll," she draws out her words, making my stomach flutter at the sight of her tongue placed between her teeth, building anticipation. "You do have a houseful of movies that I wanna get at." She winks playfully. "Britt-britt is leaving to see her cousins for some huge blonde reunion, anyway."

Sab didn't quite put me on a schedule but I'm sure he would let me spend time with my purpose. I mean, purpose trumps saving the world, right? Sort of?

"Only if we get to watch Phantom of the Opera at least once," I poke her. My fingers brush hers, tingling at the contact. Her eyes widen so slightly at the normalness of our touch, as if she thought that we'd internally combust if our skins touched. So she reaches out slowly and holds onto my hand, in her own world of thought.

Everyone else is gone. Most Cheerios rush home as soon as practice is over like Ronald McDonald was dangling Big Macs in front of them. But Santana lingered, waiting for me. Hopefully, she was waiting for me...

She laces her fingers into mine as she leans against the locker next to mine. The last time we touched like this, the last time we were in a locker room like this...

Santana wakes up from her trance but holds onto my hand, her fingers locking into mine. She clears her throat and looks back at my face, her dark eyes sparkling with a new excitement. "So yes?"

"Yes," I grin. I couldn't say no even if I wanted to.

"Quinn!" Noah's voice thunders from outside. "I'm coming in and you better be decent. Or not," he waltzes in. "I really have no problem with-" Noah stops as soon as he sees Santana, his eyes flickering to her hand holding mine, which she quickly drops.

Tension prickles in the air and I can't quite take it. "I'll be right out, Noah," I tell him. "Just give me a minute."

Noah hesitates to leave, his eyes narrowing at Santana. I wish he'd stop being so suspicious of her; I'm pretty sure I'm not meant to guard a serial killer so he needs to stop. Santana is a little rough around the edges, a bit sharp with her words, but... but never with me. Santana Lopez looks at me, and sees me. She talks to me, quietly, every word from her mouth like a husky, intimate whisper. When Coach decides to pick me as prey, Santana quickly steps in front of me and stares her down. She stops slushies from jerks.

And we fit together as perfectly as our hands, like two hands in prayer, a zipper of our fingers coming together.

Noah slinks out reluctantly.

I turn back to Santana, who is still staring at the door. I tug at her hand to bring her attention to me, and unintentionally, bring her entire body only a few inches from mine.

Santana drags her gaze up from my lips to my eyes.

I breathe in the spearmint of her breath, the warmth of her skin, close enough to reach me. "So movie date? Later?"

She nods, "Your house, six-ish? Tell Puckerman to try and not to be a third-wheel. I'm not good at sharing." She winks and lets go of my hand, reaching for her backpack.

My hand feels so empty without her holding it, I want to grab hers again. But Santana moves like water, slipping away smoothly, leaving me behind in a trance.

Until I hear Noah whine, "Come on!"

I turn to the doors, ready to leave. Of course, a vision comes at the most convenient times.

* * *

_I look at Santana in front of me, her dark eyes so wide with fear that I'm scared for her. I haven't seen that look ever cross her face, or anything less than confident. Right now, she looked so unsure of everything, terrified. _

_What concerns me, though, is the red down her front. A red that layers on top of the Cheerio red, soaks into the meticulously white segments of her uniform. Her hands are covered in red, red, red. Santana... _

* * *

"Quinn!" Noah's voice pierces through the vision, his hands shaking me awake. "What the hell happened?" I'm staring at the ceiling. Yet again.

My head is pounding. I groan, pressing my palm against forehead as I get up. Last time I checked, visions didn't leave any presents like splitting headaches.

"Be careful," Noah says tenderly, taking my wrists in his hands, pulling my palm away from my head. "You hit your head on the bench."

Oh... That explains the bloods on my palms. "How long was I out?"

"Not long," Noah gets up and walks over to the sink and wets a few paper towels. He brings them over and I expect him to hand me the towel. Instead, he sits himself on the ground beside me. "Maybe a minute or so. I just heard a crash."

He scoots closer and presses the wet towels against the area just above my temple. _Ow..._It stings enough that my eyes immediately well up. He looks apologetic, somehow, under the concern clouding his eyes. "Vision?"

"Yeah, Santana, again, but I think the Fallen were there, too," I reply, closing my eyes.

"The Fallen? You felt them again?" Noah looks alarmed. I shared with him what Judy told me and he flipped out like a child. His first encounter with darkness was equally unpleasant, I had to assume.

"It wasn't a long vision but," I gently push his hand away from my forehead. "We should go home. Santana after I drop you off."

Noah huffs, "I think you shouldn't have her over right now," he waves vaguely at my forehead. "Given your condition."

I roll my eyes, "Noah, it's just a small cut."

He scoffs, "Wait till you see it."

When we actually manage to get into the car, Noah becomes quiet again. Unusually quiet. The car ride home is silent but I can feel chaotic emotions rolling off of him, louder than any silence. It comes slightly muffled, like the wind against a broken car window held together feebly by duct tape; he's trying to hold it back from me. But they are still there, so apparent, despite his attempt. He leans against the window, staring intensely outside.

I pull into his driveway and put my car in neutral. He slings his backpack over his shoulder but before he can leave, I ask, "Are you okay, Noah?"

He turns back slowly, as if considering my question. He bites his lip before replying. "Quinn, I just want you to be careful."

I smile reassuringly and punch his shoulder playfully, "Oh, Noah, you're such a softie! Haven't you heard? We're kind of powerful."

He returns an unsure smile.

"Besides, if anything, you got my back, which is better than any bodyguard," I wink at him.

He grins goofily at the words. "Damn right I got your back, girl."

"Now get outta here," I push him gently out the door. "I'll catch you tomorrow!"

* * *

Sab immediately asks, "What happened to your forehead?" as soon as I walk through the door. I almost forgot he might be here. I almost forgot about my forehead. All I could think was how I had to finish up some stuff before Santana came over.

"Oh, right," I remember, lightly touching my forehead. I haven't seen it yet but it doesn't feel so bad yet. Just a headache. "I fell during a vision." I press my lips together, walking over to the living room and tossing my backpack onto the sofa. It lands with a soft _thump_. "Sab, I think the Fallen are going to be there, when I'm saving Santana."

He nods. "They will."

"You know already?"

"Red, you will have to open your mind to the world, too," he responds gravely, standing stiffly to the side. "When you do, you will feel as I feel. They are hovering on the edges of our world."

"This is ridiculous but... a person who is just mean can't be a Fallen, can they?" I consider Coach Sylvester. That woman can easily take reign in hell.

"No, the Fallen is something else altogether," he replies nonchalantly, smoothing down his suit jacket. "You've felt it, that black hole inside that drains you. It's suffocating and somehow, inadequate at the same time."

_Okay, not Sylvester..._ Well, it was a plausible theory while it lasted. She was only mean but entirely, wholly human. It's funny how humans have a way of destroying each other.

He examines my cut carefully. "You can use Divinity to heal that, you know."

"Whaaaaat? No one mentioned that particular power to me," I racked my brains to remember if Judy mentioned anything. All she said was as we grew older, we lost our invincibility. As children, we were allowed to bang into things, scrape our knees, whatever, and we would heal back to normal. _It's supposed to ensure that you carry out your purpose. You cannot fulfill it if you are dead, _she said to me.

"Can you do it?" I touched my forehead, feeling what I still haven't seen. "It stings."

"No, Red, that is something you will have to learn to do yourself," he quietly admonishes me. "I will make sure to put it into our curriculum." He smirks.

_For someone who hasn't quite adjusted to being amongst humans, he's definitely acquired the taste of sarcasm. _Sab is definitely loosening up.

He pulls a small mirror from his suit pocket, still meticulously tailored and ironed. I don't know when he has time to go to the dryer's but it's impressive. Sab holds it up at me, my reflection looking back. "That looks really bad actually," I think outloud. It does. I mean. Dark blood caked around it, a gash about four inches wide and really... really deep. It would be so much easier if I could still heal.

"You'll need to clean it, you know."

"Yeah, I know," I look away from the mirror. "Okay, well, healing lessons for another time?"

He tilts his head to the side, as if to ask why.

"I'm..." Oy, no teacher wants to hear that his student wants to hang out with her friend-sort-of-crush over lessons. Especially when those lessons can save the world. I push through with my excuse anyway, although it comes out more like a question. "..having Santana over soon? You know, my purpose?"

A pause hovers in the room, me half-waiting for him to scold me, him quietly contemplating my words. To my surprise, he nods. "You should."

"Really?" My disbelief stuns me but before the moment slip away, I quickly nod. _I'm not going to say no to that!_"Okay, well, lessons another time?"

"Alright, Red," he walks over to the door and steps onto the porch. Before he leaves, Sab looks back at me, piercing me with his intense gaze: "Open your heart and mind, Red, don't forget."

I grin at him, "Okay, Cryptic." He smiles lightly at my new nickname for him. I wag my fingers as he turns and walks away from the house. A few steps and his figure wavers. A few more steps and where Sab was standing a half-second ago is only empty space. He evaporated, probably literally. _I gotta ask him how to do that..._

* * *

"Holy crap, Q," Santana exclaims when I open the door. "Look at you!"

I want to retort, _Please. Look at you, you bombshell_. Somehow, she made her pajama pants look sexy, the way they hugged her hip, a small sliver of caramel skin showing between her tight tanktop and pants. Her hair was tied up in a loose, messy bun, her dark locks gathered in a haphazardly arranged loop.I couldn't pull off comfortable as sexy as she did. Her gaze was intense, as it always is, but in a way that lit up my entire world, like I was the only one that mattered. _Please, look at you_, I think as I soaked her in._  
_

"Why, thank you, Lopez, but flattery isn't going to get you out of grabbing the ice cream from the freezer while I change," I wink at her. But her mouth is still a little open, jaw dropping. She's staring at my forehead like I plastered something ridiculous. I bring my hand to my forehead, _Oh...right. Cut._Between Noah and Sab, I completely forgot to clean it.

"I, uh, fell." Which isn't lying really. "In the locker room, right after you left."

"Literally falling head over heels for me, eh?" She jokes as she peers more closely, her face only inches from mine. Her face takes on an expression of concern. "Do you have a first aid kit?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Go get it," Santana firmly told me, nudging me back into the house. Her voice has an air of such concern that I don't doubt her.

I nod without questioning her. _I should have made Sab heal it for me before_, I slowly regret as I reach for the top shelf in the study, my arm searching for a small white kit that I know was up here somewhere. When I find it, I grab a pair of sweats from my own room. No one tells you that this uniform is itchy, stiff, and uncomfortable. It's tight in places and it makes a fluttering noise as you walk. Perverts designed this uniform. I sigh as I dress into comfortable sweatshorts and a loose shirt. It's not the most flattering but after a day in this uniform, I could care less.

I call out in the house, "Santana? Where are you?"

"Movie room," the answer comes from upstairs. "Hurry up."

I climb the stairs, two at a time. Santana is sitting comfortably on the couch, staring at the huge screen. "Honestly," she comments. "You're tiny. Do you even need a TV this big?"

I laugh, "I didn't ask for it, trust me."

She turns around and looks at me, glancing at the kit in my hand. "Come here," she directs, patting the seat next to her. When I do, her nimble hands take the kit from my own and opens it.

"Close your eyes." She uses her teeth to rip open an alcohol pad. Her dark eyes flicker up at my face, "Eyes, closed. Come on."

I grin and comply. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Her chuckle reaches my ears, a musical sound that rings like sweet bells. "Stay still," she tells me just as I feel a cool wet touch on my forehead. The sharp smell of alcohol prickles my nose. "I'm almost done, I promise."

I peek through squinted eyes.

I'm going to sound ridiculous but... she's stunning. I mean, normally, she's beautiful like a jaguar, something feline and precise about her movements, a graceful smooth transition from one act to the next. Her eyes could hold a glare enough to burn a hole straight through the Earth. But right now, her concerned eyes are intensely focused, a small line between her brows revealing just how intent she was on fixing me. A small pile of alcohol pads and band-aid wrappers pile up next to her.

"Can I open my eyes now?" I ask cautiously.

"Like you weren't watching," she smirks. "Come on, I'm inches from you. I can see you peeking."

"I had to make sure you weren't going to do anything!"

She laughed, "Don't flatter yourself, Q." Santana places a band-aid tenderly, smoothing it out with her two thumbs. "There."

"Where did you learn to do that so well," I ask, feeling the clean textured surface of the band-aid, my headache gone, no blood caked on my forehead. She looks amused, "Practice makes perfect."

"Why are you practicing something like that, San?" I think of the vision, the layers of red on her Cheerio uniform. The way her eyes were wide with terror, so unlike her confident and caring look right now.

Her hands dropped from my face and into my lap, where I gathered them, lacing and unlacing my fingers with hers. Santana's hands felt rough in my own, probably from all those somersaults Coach Sue has us doing. These hands, that would be dipped in red so soon...

She shrugs, giving her non-answer, "How's the feel?"

I look at her, drinking in the sight of her, cross-legged in front of me: "Perfect."

A rosy flush creeps into her cheeks, as Santana scoots so her right shoulder touches my left, side by side. "I already popped in a movie when you basically crawled to bring back the kit."

She places her hand on top of mine and threads her fingers between my own, a tingling where our hands touched, where our fingers cross. With her other hand, she reached for the remote and turned on the screen, a still of the mask and rose from Phantom of the Opera on screen, and grinned, "I promised I'd watch it for you once."

_No Fallen could drag me down from the cloud I'm floating on right now._

* * *

_Thanks so much for the sweetest reviews. It's so awesome to be writing for readers like you lovely people. Your words were basically the reason why I managed to write something this quickly. _

_We have some ways to go with this story but answers are coming! _

_Also, question: I'm considering making a quinntana tumblr but I'm not really sure what I'd do with it except just write mini one-shot prompts you guys ask for. What do you guys think? _

_Will be updating If I Could Fly hopefully soon! _

_Happy reading and leave some love & reviews!_

_**boringsiot: You're awesome. Just hands-down fab. I'd tell you this if you would turn on your PM but alas, you have not :(_


	6. Dahlia

**Dahlia  
**(My recommendation, by the way, is to listen to _Kiss Me_ by Ed Sheeran while you read, since that's what I listened to as I wrote.)

* * *

_I look at Santana, so terrified in front of me, her uniform soaked in blood. Her hands dipped in red... The metallic scent of blood in the air sends chills. "Santana," I whisper, worry that I don't understand yet flooding into my heart. I reach out and hold her upper arms with my two hands on either side. She cringes. _

_I take my hands away and Santana shifts slightly. Just below her neck, where her uniform is a little torn, I can a glimpse of blue. Bruises peek out from where my hands slowly move the stiff, starchy fabric of her uniform aside. _

_How am I supposed to save you if I don't know what's going on with you?_

* * *

"Sab?"

He looks over from where he's lying on the ground next to me. Yes, we're both just staring at the sky. This is genuinely an exercise. He says it's to appreciate being a part of this world. _You have to love what you're going to save, Red,_ he tells me almost every day. _Open your heart to that_.

And he doesn't mind questions. Which is nice, because I've never had someone who could provide even one answer. Anything that would push along angeldom education, he explains patiently.

"Yes, Red?" He likes to call me "Red" at every available occasion.

"Why am I a dahlia? Why not a rose or a lily?" I mean, there needs to be some logic in that.

Sab doesn't answer right away. Instead, he seems to mull over the question. His words come out slowly, "There was an angel who walked in the light, like we do. That angel's name was Procel. Have you heard of him?"

"No, I don't think so." I rack my brains for such a name and don't find any recollection. I watch the clouds move along. Sab has been teaching me how to fly, and he says we need to learn from the clouds. They are ethereal and fleeting, like we are. _Watch the clouds, Red, because they are our mirrors_, Sab says. Leave it to him to give cryptic answers. It is helpful, though, all his tips on flying. Like using clouds to hide behind as we soar or banking so hard in one direction that we fly in the other direction. Small things that matter.

Right now, the clouds drift lazily along the clear open skies. Our morning lessons always start like this: leaning back into the Earth, watching the heavens light up.

"Procel," he continues. "Procel was a great leader of angels, when we used to be more of guardians of the realm rather than guides. And mind you, this was before my time."

"Oh, god, so this was pretty much the beginning of time," I joke but he doesn't laugh.

"Yes, sometime around then," he replies simply. _Okay, I was kidding but that's cool, too_. "Procel was one who helped create emotions in humans."

"Wait, what? Someone _made _emotions?" I look over in disbelief at Sab, who is tracing the clouds' movements with a finger.

"It's rather difficult to explain, Red," he calmly responds. "You're going to have to pick one question at a time."

"Okay, um, go on with the story, which has yet to do anything with what I asked," I reply, reconsidering what my first question was. _Why dahlia, right. _

"Procel helped create hope. Hope is a beautiful creation that he helped shape into existence. You would love it. Maybe when you join us after this life, I'll show you," Sab continues like I never interrupted. "But you know how we use light to battle the dark? There is a yin to a yang, Red, so Procel grappled with another emotion that contrasted hope: despair."

Suddenly, the sun warming our faces is not enough to appease the chills I feel. I know despair, I have been touched by the Fallen long enough to understand the drowning feeling, the downward spiral of hopelessness. It was the ceaseless pounding waves of darkness, powerful and damning.

"He walked between the light and dark as he worked with hope and despair, both beautiful in its own way. Hope was this lit-up creation, dazzling with white spires and pillars of light. Despair was like that, just dark instead of light. Both had an elegant beauty, Red," his voice is laced with respect and awe.

"Procel fell to deeply into the creation, letting the despair flood. Procel was one of the first to become a Fallen," Sab lets his arms drop to his side and closed his eyes. This is the next part of our exercise, the quiet absorption of our surroundings. I need to focus when I try to take in the world but Sab could multi-task angelhood and humanity easily. He continues, "But Procel had a partner-in-creation, Sienel. They worked closely as they meticulously balanced the light and dark in their work. When Procel fell, Sienel's wings turned red just like yours as Sienel committed to a new purpose. Sienel vowed to bring Procel back someday."

He pauses.

"Sienel did bring Procel back to the light. We call you a Red Dahlia because it is a symbolic name of love, commitment, and elegance. Sienel was committed, Procel was elegant in his work, and well, together, they were love," Sab concludes.

_Oh, partners... _"Sienel was his lover?"

I hear Sab's knowing smile in his voice, "Red, you continue to limit yourself to the thinking of humans. Gender is a social construct."

"What do you mean?" He never ceases to challenge my understanding of the world. As a result, I only have more questions. _Thank goodness he doesn't mind..._

"Have you ever found yourself missing someone you never had?"

"Often.." I answer cautiously. I always felt it, that there was something missing in my life.

"We used to be whole beings, Red," Sab explains quietly. "But we were purposeless and meandered. The universe broke us into halves and sent us out into the world, humans and angels alike. Now, we always carry this feeling until we found our other half."

"What if we never find another half?"

"We are puzzle pieces, Red. There will always be an almost piece. Almost perfect, almost fitting. It won't make us whole but it will be enough," he answers. "Sienel was Procel's perfect piece and Procel was Sienel's. We are only puzzle pieces, not genders and races. Love is with a person, not with a gender. I know it seems natural to think that men and women are very different and biologically speaking, you would be correct. But there are things that have nothing to do with your gender that humans think are determined by their gender. I like the color red but that doesn't make me more of a man or more of a woman. Love is... at its essence, genderless. Do you understand now?"

"More than you realize," I answer, thinking of Santana.

"So it is because of Sienel and Procel, Sienel as the first red-winged, their love as a symbol of elegance and commitment, that we call you Dahlia, a flower of exactly that. A flower the represents elegance, loyalty, dignity."

I like that. It makes more sense now. I'm clumsy and really, just trying to figure out how I play in all this. But I come from a place of love, elegance, and loyalty, just like a dahlia. Of course, then I ask another question, "Why are my wings red then?"

His wings shake as his body shakes with a chuckle. Tufts of white feather float around, catching the breeze that brushes the grass on the field. Sab chuckles, "You have many questions, Red."

I protest, "Well, it's not like I can Google this."

"We're not sure exactly why," Sab tries to answer. "Personally, I believe it is the blood of those we lost, Red. Our Fallen brothers and sisters, all those that we need to save, you are carrying that burden, their blood, in your wings." I shudder at the thought but Sab's next words reassure me a little: "Sienel's wings turned white when Procel was saved."

I think about this. Perhaps, there is something to what Sab's speculations.

"Rendered speechless for a change, Red?" Sab grins, getting up. "Well, meditation is over, anyway. It's time for Divinity."

* * *

"You know, I'm going to say this once and forever deny it if you ever mention it in public," Santana starts as she sweeps into the seat next to me in Advanced English. Everyone else buzzes around us, getting in as much conversation as they can before the bell rings. Santana scoots her chair closer to mine and lowers her voice: "I think we're going to have to rewatch that movie."

I grin, "It's okay if you loooooove musicals, Santana Lopez."

She puts on a stoic face and turns to the front of class, "I can neither confirm nor deny what you speak of, Quinn Fabray." She turns just so slightly and winks.

"But you know what I do admit," she challenges me, a playful glare in her eyes that made everyone else irrelevant.

"What?"

"I can think of a few things that I do love," she drag her gaze up and down my body once. _Is she flirting with me?_ My jaw drops a little open at her not-so-subtleness, just as the bell rings. She flips her hair as she sweeps into her chair.

Mr. Briggs likes to interrogate us since we seem to be the only two can answer his questions without paying attention in class. Oddly, high school teachers seem to wield too much power...

I look at Santana, who has a careful balance of boredom and indifference on her face, still stoic but no longer joking. My eyes drag down her figure clad in her Cheerio uniform. I know we're wearing the exact same uniform but somehow, she pulls it off so much better than I do. I don't know how I'm going to save her or from what but the thought of her bleeding, a bloodied uniform over that body, makes my heart thud. I want to reach out, pull her into a hug, and hold on. If I held on, maybe nothing would happen. I won't ever see her bleed out or the terror-struck expression in her eyes. Maybe-

I didn't expect her to turn, which is why I feel heat rush into my cheeks when Santana catches me staring at her. Granted, she was daydreaming just moments before. I didn't know she would snap out of it so suddenly.

She smirks and tosses a folded paper, just as Briggs turns around to write on the whiteboard.

_Enjoying your view, Q? _Her loopy handwriting, half-print, half-cursive, makes me feel like I know her that much better. This is something so entirely her. And this girl. Good god. I can feel myself blushing.

_Oh, yeah, I mean, Bradley is lookin' pretty cute. _I toss the paper back at her and watch her pout as she reads the words and glances over. I perk an eyebrow in the direction of Bradley, an art student who is a little too hipster for my taste but I know is popular across all the literature and drama students. She sticks out a tongue at me adorably as she throws it back, the square paper landing perfectly in front of me.

_Don't degrade yourself. You can do better than that. _Okay, I'll admit it. I feel giddy when I read her words.

Santana watches me from the corner of her eye as I place the eraser end of my pencil on my lower lip, trying to think of a good response and-

The air around me is slowly thinning like we're climbing up to Mount Everest. The world, edged by the promise of a blackout, slowly fades...

* * *

_"It's hard, isn't it, Quinn Fabray?" A voice hisses across the landscape of my mind. The voice is cold, enough cruelty to possibly kill all the puppies in the world at once. The voice sounds composed but angry, a bitterness permanently set into its tone. "You never asked for this burden. You just want to enjoy your life, right?"_

_I'm choking, gasping for air. My hands clutch at my chest, clawing at my skin like I can rip into my own lungs. The despair, the misery, jealousy, anger, melancholy, they are all so overwhelming. Each miserable feeling rips through my heart, leaving behind layers of scars. The emotions tumble just below diaphragm, making me wish I can vomit it out, hurl it aside and away from me._

_"You can just give in," the voice slyly whispers. "We would take care of you. You don't have to do this." _

_My head is pounding, my heart is beating hard enough to break through my ribcage. I'm screaming, screaming, screaming but no one can hear me under this cloak of darkness. The uninvited presence slides across my consciousness like a wet, unwelcome kiss._

_"You will see, Quinn Fabray," the voice fades away._

* * *

My pencil is on the floor, my hands on my chest. I feel panicked, my heart still thudding, my palms cold with sweat. It's like being dipped in agony and then deep-fried in misery. My breath comes out in hard huffs, drinking in as much as oxygen, as I realize...

...the whole class is staring at me.

_Lovely_.

"Ms. Fabray?" Mr. Briggs is staring at me. "Are you alright?" His eyes are wide; clearly, he doesn't want a dead student in his class. Understandable.

"Yes, I- uh-," I stammer. I look at Santana, who is looking at me with a hint of terror mixed in the obvious concern on her face.

She stands up and turns to face Mr. Briggs, "I think she needs a moment. I'm going to take her to outside," she calmly directs, pulling her backpack over her shoulders. I don't even know when she already packed to leave. For the sake of courtesy, she adds, "If that's okay with you."

Nothing about her tone is asking permission and everyone in the class knew it. Mr. Briggs accepts it, though, and nods, his hand holding onto a book like it was his life raft. Santana gathers my notebook and pens, slings my bag over her shoulder, and looks at me expectantly. The class silently watches.

_Oh,_ I realize she's waiting for me. I get up, hands still over my chest. She leads the way out and I follow.

The door closes behind us with a note of finality. Santana doesn't stop walking, though. She holds onto my things as she leads the way, only pausing to hold doors open for me. Dread is still coursing through my veins, hands still shaking. As soon as we step outside the school building, I breathe in the fresh air. The smell of grass reaches us before we even step onto the football field, a damp scent of dew and soil. Santana walks to the middle of the field and drops both our bags.

"You look like you needed air," she turns and looks at me. Santana walks up to me and places her hands on my shoulders. Her eyes look... so earnest. "Are you okay?"

I nod. "I just- the class- you're right. It was just overwhelming for a second and I needed some air."

Santana looks unconvinced, pursing her lips doubtfully. She takes her hands off my shoulders and instead, takes my hands in hers. "You're not... dying or anything, are you?" I want to laugh but she looks so serious.

Instead, I smile, "No, I'm not dying, I promise."

"Okay, good," she breathes a sigh of relief. The way she looks at me, I can tell she wants to ask about it but instead, she seats herself on the grass and explains, "I didn't feel like being cooped up inside anyway. School always feels like a bird cage, all these things you can and can't do." She brushes away my incident in a way that doesn't make me feel like a freak; she makes me feel at home with myself, something even Judy or Noah has accomplished.

Since I was young, I knew I was different, whether I liked it or not. But something about Santana, the way she looks at me with admiration or something I can't quite recognize, makes me feel like it's okay to be in my own skin, visions and all.

_Oh, sweetie, I know what you mean about being caged and cooped up,_ I resonate with her.I'm literally a bird in a cage. Or you know, something with wings at least. I sit next to her, carefully trying to examine her as I do. I think of the bruises I see in my vision, although they're not any part of her body I can see right now.

"Santana," I turn to face her and reach for her hands. I look down, letting my fingers weave and unweave as I try to put together my words. "You know if you needed anything, I'm here for you, right?"

She laughs, "Yeah, I know, Q. Why?"

_Blood and bruises, blood and bruises, _I think. I look up at her, holding tightly as I lose myself in the depth of her eyes. They have a particular sparkle, one that invites me in, lets me be myself. "Because if you ever needed me, I'd want to be there for you. You always look out for me and I should be looking out for you." _Crap, did I say too much?_ I quickly try to redeem myself. "Because you matter. To me, at least."

She looks back at me, her eyebrows furrowing just slightly as she considers my words. She places her hands on either side of her crossed legs, and presses down, shifting closer to me. The world silences just barely, the more serene quiet blanketing us like we were the last ones alive in the world. We could be, for all I care. All I feel is the moist grass under our bare legs and the keen awareness about the universe slowly shifting, destinies aligning. She grapples with something silently, for a moment longer and...

Last time, I was helplessly drawn to her like she was the magnetic tug on my heart.  
Last time, I was surprised by my own actions.  
Last time, _I_ kissed _her_.

But this time.

This time, _she _moves closer, but like she chooses me. There is no helplessness in her actions, only the decisive confidence she always carries in her body.

This time, _she _surprises me, leaning into my lips firmly with all the freedom and choice in the world, the taste of spearmint lingering in my mouth.

This time, _she _kisses _me_.

Last time, I thought she wanted me.  
This time, I know she does.

* * *

"Stop grinning like that," Noah scolds from the driver's seat. He's taking me home for a change. I know we can both fly or run home faster than some car but people have a way of looking at you strangely after that. Instead, we take turns, especially because I love being able to put my feet up on the dashboard, drumming my hands against my thighs to the music that Noah always lets me pick. He always protests against my music but I've heard him hum the songs for days after; he's not one to complain. "You look like you're high or something."

I can't stop, even though my cheeks hurt from my grin. "I look awesome, always, Noah Puckerman," I retort, still smiling widely.

"What is your deal?" He sounds incredulous. "You've been non-stop grinning. Doesn't that hurt?"

"Oh, hardly, my dear friend," I fling my arms around his neck, as he swats at them and tries to hold onto the wheel. "It's just been one of those days."

"Okay, okay, crazy," Noah grins at the sight of my glee. "Is it something with Sab? Are you guys getting on, instead of lessons?" He winks.

"Gross, no, he's practically a relic for the angel museum, Noah." Sab is friendly and sarcasm is really suiting his humor but he is as distant from me as any other teacher. As good-looking as he is, he has the sexual appeal of a brick wall.

"Is it that English class you keep acing without trying? 'Cause I'm going to need some help, _friend_," he smiles with a mischievous glare, an inviting smile that woos any other girl on campus. Of course, I'm already captivated by another smile.

"Not English class, but classmate," I smile to myself, remembering the press of her lips, the lingering scent of Santana, so uniquely her with her spearmint gum and whatever shampoo she uses, the lotion on her skin. When I look over, I read a grimace on his face. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he replies curtly.

I sigh, "Noah, you can't keep pushing me out whenever you feel like it. Talk to me."

He shrugs, "You guys seem to be getting mighty close is all."

"I'm trying but it's just complicated," I try to explain.

"I know what you mean," he vaguely responds.

_Do you? _His words make me realize we haven't talked about his purpose in awhile, mostly because he doesn't like to talk about it much anymore. Instead, he likes to hear about what Sab taught me and small lessons in Divinity here and there. I mean, we are using his field; it's the least I can do. I prod further, "Have you been getting any further on figuring out your purpose?"

He shrugs, "It's not a big deal." I look at him, incredulous. This boy, who once bothered me for weeks about what is a purpose, how does it work, when do you know, and all other details possible, just declared that this purpose is "not a big deal". More than that, I know that I can feel my purpose in every splinter of my bone, every drop of blood in veins; it is as important to me as the oxygen I breathe.

"Puckerman, what is wrong with you? Are you sick?" I press the back of my hand on his forehead, making him laugh and push my hand away.

"I'm just saying," he relents to my prying. "Maybe things don't always work out like in our visions."

_Santana covered in blood_…. Yeah, it would be really nice if I never saw that but I'm not banking Santana's life on that uncertainty. I know, with every inch of my body, that I'm here for her and she's going to change the world someday.

Noah pulls into my driveway, shifting gears into park as he turns to me. I smile at him and reach out for a hug. My arms wrap tightly around him, my hands rubbing his back comfortingly. "Noah, I know it's confusing when you don't know how it's going to work out," I reassure as I speak into his shoulder. He sighs, his whole body shifting weight against me. "And it's hard to talk about what you don't know but I'm here if you need, Noah, and things will work out. Whatever you're seeing or saying, it's going to be okay. That's why we're here."

* * *

Warm, bubbly, reassured, hopeful, confident, _aware_. That's how I feel right now, like the sun isn't just shining on me but shining through me, from me. I'm spinning with the world, completely a part of its gravity. Every consciousness touches mine but doesn't overwhelm me; instead, they brush against mine as they meander through with their lives. All the creatures, each blade of grass, every critter in the ground. I let go of my boundaries and let the world rush in.

At some point, hours later I'm sure, I close myself up again, becoming an individual apart from this world. It's quiet in my mind, and a little lonely with the sudden absence.

"That's really great, Red," Sab exclaims, just as I open my eyes, applauding. "How is it, being a part of this world?"

"Uplifting," I recount, trying to shake off the wisps of Divinity coursing through my veins. If someone split my skin open, I'm sure light would spill out. "It's not even just flying, it's like being the wind. It's being part of the air that touches everything."

Sab smiles, "That is what it is." He pauses. "Are you ready to wield it?"

"Excuse me? You do realize this is just warm, fuzzy light," I laugh with disbelief, my palms still glowing. I hold out my palms to show it. "It's not going to do much."

"You think it's only light, Red, but it's not." He steps closer to me within arms-length. He places his palm right over my temple, gentle over the cut that's stitching together. "Watch."

A light peeks out from under his palm and into my eyes, only an inch or less away. My eyes widen, as I feel the ripped ridges reach for each other. I feel my skin come together, weaving shut like nothing was ever wrong.

Sab is grinning when he steps back, inspecting his handiwork.

"Okay, I will admit it," I say as I touch my temple. "That's really amazing."

"And watch this," Sab steps back near me again and places a hand over my sternum. "You're going to want your wings out for this," he grins. I do, bracing myself for whatever he's about to do. "Let the wind catch you."

_Let the wind what? _I barely get out the "huh?" when he blasts a force straight against my chest, my arms and wings flailing as they try to grab onto the wind rushing away from me. My wings flash out in a single sweep and slow my stumbling body, the heels of my feet dragging along the grass until I reach the end of the football field-sized area we're practicing in.

"Light's not so warm and fuzzy now, huh?" Sab has something close to a smirk on his face as I stabilize my stance and find the ground beneath my feet again. "It's a rush of opposing force. You need to understand that there is power in that."

I nod, "I believe you, trust me."

"Okay, good, because that's how you're going to repel the Fallen, physically and mentally," he explains, settling into a cross-legged seat on the grass. I place myself in front of him, mimicking his style. "The explanation is rather complicated, Red. The Fallen wield an absence, a void. That's how they recruit, when one is vulnerable to giving up the little hope and love they have in their lives. Have you ever felt despair?" I nod. "It's a downward spiral, right? This feeling that feeds on itself until you're deep in the ground, in your own grave. That's when a Fallen can best persuade you, that misery loves company so you should join them," he tries his best to enlighten me.

"So," I chew my words slowly. "This light is supposed to be that opposing force?"

"Think of it like this: they are emptying a cup, or in this case, your soul and heart. We are trying to fill it. They are drains, we are fountains. That blast of light is the fountain from which we pour light, encouragement, faith, hope, love."

* * *

"Hey, you," I call out my window, slowing down my car beside a bronze body sprinting her heart out, earphones blasting so loudly that even I can hear her music. "Really, you're actually running to the soundtrack of Phantom of the Opera?"

She catches a glimpse of me, calling out to her from my car window, and after a double-take, her feet stutters to a stop. Santana's eyes widen with surprise, like I caught her when she least expected me. _I like that look on you_, I decide, musing over how vulnerable she looked for a moment. "Hey," she pants, pulling the earphones from her ears. "Where- are you- coming- from?"

In that moment, it strikes me that I'm lying to her by omission. I wonder how much easier it would be to be close to her if she just knew about me, about my struggles, about why I'm here for her, about why I feel this pull towards her. I shrug, "Just a drive."

"Oh."

"You want to come over for dinner? Granted, I'm not cooking but I will have you know, I am really, really good at calling that take-out place," I wink, while silently willing her to say yes.

She thinks for a moment and grins, "It's a good thing I ran if we're eating take-out then." Smooth as oil, she slips in through the open window on the passenger side, not even bothering with the door. I never quite appreciated how toned her legs were, small dips where her muscles were firmly set.

"Stop staring and drive, Q," Santana teases, letting her playful smile light up her whole face.

"Right," I turn my head back to the road, my hand shifting gears to drive. Santana reaches out and rests her hand over mine for the rest of the ride, still holding the shift.

* * *

"Tell me something," I say to Santana, rolling over onto my back, content with a belly full of Thai food. We ate take-out ravenously, me hungry from Divinity and Santana hungry from her run, and groaned as we rolled onto my bed. Our foos settles heavily in our stomachs, leaving me with a drowsy lack of inhibition.

"Like what?"

"I don't know," I wave my hand vaguely. "Anything. Just tell me something," I murmur, rolling to my side, only inches from her. Brave in my dream-like drowsiness, I collect her hands into mine and bring them close to my body like I'm clutching onto a teddy bear. Our fingers intertwine, two pairs of hands clasped at my chest.

Through my heavy lids, I see Santana smile softly, a certain look of tenderness that I've never seen grace her face before. Maybe I'm just imagining it but she let me hold them.

"When I was twelve, I really wanted rollerblades. I begged my mom for them for so many days, I can't even remember how long I begged but she always said no," Santana looks past me, looking into her own memory playing behind me. "No, Santana, you'll get hurt," she mimics in a stern voice that makes a giggle bubble up my throat. "But Brittany got a pair for her birthday and she let me try them, even though she had bigger feet so they were a little bit big on me."

"And how was it?" I can just imagine twelve-year-old Santana putting on those rollerblades, already a touch of defiance in her eyes, clenched jaw.

"I fell before I even made it a block," she laughs. "I sped into a bump and flew a good ten feet before I landed on my side. I broke my right wrist and elbow at the same time. Brittany was screaming, fumbling for my phone from my pocket. She called my dad, who drove straight over from the hospital. He came, sat on the pavement next to me, and fixed it. Wrapped it, put it in a sling, and picked me up. He carried me to the car and bought me ice cream."

She smiles, "He didn't scold me once that whole time. He used to let me make my own mistakes, my own decisions."

I blink open my eyes, seeing Santana in this light. She is someone's little girl, someone that needed to be taken care of, an image she works so hard to fight against at school; instead, she walks the halls with all the confidence of a tiger, precise and smooth in every movement. But right now, Santana curls up around our pile of hands, recollecting the vulnerability of that moment.

And it's one word that strikes me hard. "Used to?" I pause, trying to not pry but unable to stop myself. "What about now?"

She clears her throat, "He died." Her voice breaks just a little bit, a thin film of tears in her eyes. "Three years ago, car crash."

_She's… so sad, _I realize. Santana isn't alone but she feels lonely. At the sound of her heartbreak, I let go of her hands. She looks up at the sudden release but I reach out my arms and gather her curled body close to my own. Santana buries her face into the space right below my collarbone. I perch my chin on top of her head, holding her until her quiet hiccuping gulps of air dwindles into deep, long breaths. I press my lips against her hair before I fall slowly into slumber and in love.

* * *

_A/N: Okay, this is probably the fastest update I did for this story but nonetheless, hope you all have been well since the last time I updated. I edited less than I normally do, mostly because I wanted to just put this out there so if you do catch a mistake, let me know; I'll definitely update (I'm thinking of you, boringsiot)._

_Let me know what you think, you amazing readers. I send you all a virtual hug. _

_Leave some love & reviews!_

_Always, **C.**_


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